I’ve learned to measure the health of my relationships not by how often we agree, or how much we love each other, or even how good intimacy is, but by whether I feel safe enough to be all of me.
Relational safety is subtle. It’s not something we can fake with polite smiles or words like “I love you” spoken through clenched teeth. It’s a felt sense. My nervous system knows the truth before my mind can explain it. When safety is present, my body relaxes,my voice comes naturally and my humor shows up. I don’t overthink before speaking. I don’t feel the need to protect, perform, or edit myself. There is space for my joy and my pain, for my bigness and my fragility.
If I’m paying attention, my body immediately tells me when safety is missing.
How I Know It’s Not There
The absence of relational safety shows up in the small things first.
I notice myself scanning for signs of approval before I speak. I measure my words. I dress my truth in softer tones so it doesn’t sound “too much”.
My breath goes shallow. My shoulders tighten toward my ears. My stomach braces.
I start narrating in my head instead of living in the moment:
“Will they think I’m overreacting?”
“Is this going to cause a fight?”
“Maybe I should just keep this to myself.”
I find myself agreeing to things I don’t actually want, or avoiding topics that matter to me, just to avoid friction.
The deeper truth is that my body has picked up on cues that this is not a place where all of me is welcome. Whether it’s from the tone of the other, or the way they withdraw when I express emotion, or my own unhealed wounds projecting old fears, my system moves into self-protection. Sometimes this is because the other person isn’t actually safe to open up to. Other times, the person is safe, but my history tells me otherwise. In either case, my nervous system won’t relax, and feelings of fear and sometimes shame are present, until the signal of safety is restored.
Why Relational Safety Matters
Without safety, there can be no real intimacy.
We might have moments of closeness, but they’ll be fragile, conditional. I might feel loved when I’m agreeable or cheerful, but not when I’m messy or hurting. Safety is what allows repair after rupture. It’s what allows us to take risks, to share our desires, fears, and truths without worrying they’ll be used against us.
In relationships without safety, intimacy becomes a performance, connection becomes a negotiation, and love becomes a bargain.
With safety, I can say, “This hurt me” without fearing abandonment.
With safety, I can express desire without fearing rejection will crush me.
With safety, I can disagree and still perceive love.
How I Invite It Back
I can’t demand safety from someone else. I can’t control how open, attuned, or regulated they are. But I can influence the space between us. I can make my side of the bridge a place where safety lives.
Here’s what I practice:
1. I slow down.
When tension rises, my first instinct is often to speed up: to talk faster, explain more, convince harder. But speed is the enemy of safety. Slowing my voice, my breath, and my body communicates: We’re not in danger right now.
2. I get curious, not accusatory.
Instead of saying, “You always shut down when I talk about my feelings,” I try, “I notice you got quiet just now..what’s happening for you?” Curiosity invites openness. Accusation invites defensiveness.
3. I own my experience.
“I feel unseen when the phone comes out during dinner” lands differently than “You’re so rude.” Owning my feelings lets the other person meet me without shame as a barrier.
4. I attune to nonverbal signals.
Sometimes words say “I’m fine” but the shoulders are tense, the eyes dart away. I try to notice these cues and adjust my approach, such as softening my tone, pausing and giving space if needed.
5. I reveal, rather than perform.
This one is the hardest for me. When I’m afraid, I want to hide behind my most polished self. But safety deepens when I risk showing the vulnerable truth: “I’m feeling nervous telling you this,” or “Part of me is scared you’ll be mad.”
What I Ask Myself When Safety Feels Missing
When I notice my body contract in someone’s presence, I pause and ask:
- Is this person giving me cues of safety or danger?
- Am I reacting to the present moment or to an old pattern?
- What do I need right now to feel safe enough to stay in connection?
Sometimes the answer is simple: take a breath, soften my body, speak my truth. Other times, the answer is harder: step back, honor my boundaries, or even end the conversation.
Safety Is Co-Created
It’s tempting to think safety is something the “good” partner or friend provides. But in truth, safety is co-created. It’s a loop of signals, words, actions, and repair.
If I want my relationships to feel safe, I have to be someone who creates safety too.
That means:
- Listening without interrupting.
- Not weaponizing someone’s vulnerability later.
- Being willing to repair when I’ve hurt them.
- Connecting with, and giving space to my own emotions so they don’t have to tiptoe around me.
When both people take responsibility for safety, the relationship becomes a living container where risk and trust can grow together.
The Difference It Makes
When relational safety is present, the entire dynamic changes.Arguments become opportunities for understanding. Differences become interesting instead of threatening. Intimacy becomes deeper, wilder, more playful, because desire blooms in safe soil. Safety doesn’t mean comfort all the time. It doesn’t mean we never trigger each other. It means we know that when discomfort comes, we can find our way back to each other without fear.
My Ongoing Practice
I used to think relational safety was something you either had or didn’t. Now I see it as something I can cultivate every day. Sometimes that means speaking up. Sometimes it means softening. Sometimes it means knowing when the safest thing is to step back. And always, it means listening to my body, the first place that safety, or the lack of it, will speak.
Because here’s the truth:
Safety is not an idea. It’s a felt experience.
And when I feel it, everything in me can finally exhale.
