My mind is an autobiographical film that is constantly on play and replay. Since I was a child, I’ve struggled with a habit of obsessive rumination. I compulsively live out situations in my head, both past and potential future ones. I replay events, and anticipate alternative scenarios and words that I should or could have said in countless moments that have passed. 

Only recently (quite literally earlier this week) have I questioned why I do this. I determined that I obsessively ruminate whenever I feel unsafe, and do it as a way to prepare myself for situations that feel outside of my control, and that trigger anxious and insecure feelings to bubble to the surface. My mind is where I can go to control narratives and outcomes, even if they’re not always reflected that way in the real world. And because I do it so frequently, it raises the question of: when do I ever feel safe out in the world or with myself?

I’m fortunate to have lived a life where, aside from a few years of middle school bullying, I’ve never felt that my physical safety has ever been in real jeopardy. Still, I can’t say the same for my emotional or psychological safety. To be born a girl and Black in Deep South American society means learning how to bear the weight of two identities that are systematically (and systemically) oppressed for the sole purpose of controlling and taming you. Safety — its varying degrees and forms — is a privilege.

Early on, I was taught that there is a particular way to exist in this world and that my existence — the way that I show up here — must fit within tight boundaries. The rules weren’t always explicit. Sometimes, they were shared through disapproving looks, narrow eyes, and other non-verbal cues. I learned that being in this world and theoretically playing the part wasn’t good enough. I actually had to embody what my community demanded of me, even if it didn’t reflect who I truly was or what I believed. I’m sure that this social contract worked for plenty of people. That, or maybe they were just better at pretending than I was. Regardless, the outcome for me was incredible levels of anxiety and insecurity that I would be discovered as a fraud and removed from the familiarity of community acceptance, even if receiving that acceptance meant that roleplaying was required. I feared that I would slip up and people would discover that I didn’t believe the way that they did, and that I was simply playing the part long enough to move out of my hometown and into a newer, more expansive community.

“But there are trade-offs to virtually everything. And my trade-off is that I do not feel safe.”

My family and church couldn’t know that I regularly questioned the Bible, or that I didn’t believe homosexuality was a sin, or that my friends who practiced other religions weren’t going to hell. My Black friends couldn’t know that I loved pop music far more than rap, and my white friends couldn’t know that I secretly resented that the rules were different for them than they were for me. At the time, I didn’t have the language to articulate that my resentment towards them stemmed from rage at white supremacy. Attending predominantly white schools only added to it.

I grew up toggling between several different environments within my community, each with its own expectations. And because none of them felt safe enough to share my truth, I ruminated on every word that left my lips.

In order to determine when I’ve ever felt safe, I first had to define safety. What does safety feel like? I knew I’d experienced it countless times before, mainly as an adult. Still, unless I put a name to it, I knew that intentionally recreating circumstances to feel safe more often would be a challenge. 

For me, safety feels like relaxed shoulders, jaws, and eyebrows. It’s a sense of peace and levity. It’s losing track of time with others and while I’m alone. Safety is no achiness of the chest or the stomach. No racing thoughts that pass faster than I can process them. It’s not having to remind myself to breathe. It feels like a connection to something greater than myself. Safety feels like a connection to myself.

I’ve started working on a comprehensive list, and while not yet complete, this is what I’ve come up with so far. I feel safe—

• when I spend time in nature and silence to hear myself think.

• when I am surrounded by people who genuinely care for me or, at the very least, do not seek to cause me harm.

• when I’ve spiritually grounded myself.

• when I don’t feel like my mistakes are a reflection of who I am as a person, and instead are simply a sign that I am human.

• when my skills and performance are not the basis for whether I’m treated with respect or valued as a human.

• when I don’t judge myself while creating (or simply existing).

• when I don’t spend time internally criticizing others because I know that doing so is really just a mirror of what I haven’t accepted about myself.

• when my livelihood is not predicated on my performance.

In the last year, I’ve pivoted my career and changed jobs. There was nothing wrong with my last one aside from being cradled by the complacency of a comfortable job and yet perpetually frustrated with myself because I struggled to take a leap of faith and pursue the kind of work that I really wanted to do — writing, storytelling, and creative direction.

My frustration finally mounted to a point where I had no other choice but to take action in any direction and trust that I could find my way through it. My current job is a dream on paper. The work is meaningful and purposeful. I can finally work from anywhere, which has substantially changed the time I spend with my loved ones.

But there are trade-offs to virtually everything. And my trade-off is that I do not feel safe.

Most days, I wake up at 7:00 AM, and my mind slowly yet immediately begins to swirl with all of the demands of my work—well, less so my work and more so living up to expectations. My cortisol levels rise when I glance at my calendar. I feel frustrated that I’ve not yet found a way to avoid or control it from happening.

Sometimes, I ask myself, “Can I just escape this one aspect of my life—the politics around the work?” Truthfully, I know that’s the wrong question because I don’t want a circumstance where I wish to escape any aspect of my life. I’ve been triggered and retriggered for months, and only recently have I been able to uncover why. I’ve traded an unsafe home life for an unsafe work life. The performance of living up to my parent’s, church’s, or academic expectations has now become a performance of living up to an organization’s expectations that allows little room for error.

“I used to use my mental capacity to belong to others. I now use it to try to belong to myself.”

There’s a circular pattern happening here that I can’t yet fully articulate, but I see it manifesting, not just in my life but also with my friends and family. There’s a pattern of our triggers weaving back and forth into other areas of our lives. Sure, we may have untangled them in one place, but they creep into another place if we’re not paying attention. For me, it’s home and now work. For other people, it’s work and then home, but the effect is still similar. We’re constantly having to use tools (both new and existing) to create safety and guide ourselves back to an equilibrium. But that line between safe and unsafe can be so razor thin that if we can’t catch the pattern on a conscious level, we can hopefully feel their effects on a visceral, bodily level to jar us out of autopilot.

I’m unsure of what the solution is or if there even is a solution. My instinct tells me that adding and subtracting is a good place to start—adding in the people, things, and circumstances that make me feel safe, and subtracting the things that don’t. I also think that mindset shifts help, too. But knowing which route (or routes) to take and when to take them is where self-trust comes in.

My choices may lead me through unforeseen circumstances, but I can say the same for every other life experience that I’ve walked through before this point. I waded through. I navigated. While I’d like to think that such a habit has done me a complete disservice, that wouldn’t be an entirely accurate statement. I made it to the other side despite and because of my rumination. 

The lack of safety throughout my life has, at times, deeply inhibited my ability to experience creativity, joy, and pleasure fully. I used to blame myself for it, determining that something was inherently and deeply wrong with me. I believed I was a puzzle of missing pieces, and I obsessively searched for reasons to validate the belief. Ruminating has generally been a tool that’s given me a sense of control; however false it might have been, like all tools, it can be destructive when handled unwieldy and for inadequate reasons. 

When used deliberately, rumination has helped me actively consider several sides of situations and self-reflect. I’ve abandoned unhealthy relationships and toxic workplaces because of it. That, coupled with self-trust, has helped me determine when to take calculated risks and pivot.

I used to use my mental capacity to belong to others. I now use it to try to belong to myself — regardless of how messy and contradictory my Self may be. Life doesn’t fit into a neat, little box, nor do I or the tools I’ve used (and repurposed) to navigate it.

Ultimately, I’m learning to accept that safety is wherever I am. It’s not something that can be guaranteed in every door that I walk through. But I can begin to consistently cultivate a safe environment by intentionally using my tools to support, not destroy myself, and trusting that I have the wisdom to discern the difference.