Journal Entry: The Room That Wasn't Safe
I sat in that living room again — the one that always hums with unspoken tension. The air felt thick, like grief in slow motion. The TV was turned up loud enough to fill the silence, but not enough to distract from what it was covering. Every laugh track felt like a lie — an attempt to script joy where love had long stopped showing up.
Her eyes cut across the room like blades. No words, just the kind of silence that says everything — judgment, resentment, competition. The same game we’ve been playing for years, pretending everything is fine as long as we don’t name the wound. I used to think if I stayed quiet enough, agreeable enough, invisible enough, maybe I’d finally earn belonging. But belonging built on suppression isn’t love. It’s survival.
I watched my mother sit there too, pretending not to notice the energy shift. She never intervenes, never questions — she just lets the tension simmer until it becomes the air we all learn to breathe. That’s the thing about dysfunction — it normalizes itself so well you start to think the unease is your fault.
But tonight, something felt different. I couldn’t shrink anymore. I didn’t have the energy to swallow my discomfort or force another polite smile. I just sat there, feeling every ounce of what wasn’t being said. And for the first time, I didn’t blame myself for it.
It hit me like a quiet truth: this room was never safe. Not because of ghosts or shadows, but because of patterns — the kind built on silence, competition, and unspoken pain. I’ve spent years trying to turn that space into home, rearranging myself like furniture, trying to make it fit. But no amount of shrinking can make a toxic space sacred.
Spirit’s voice came through like a whisper between heartbeats:
Your sanctuary will never be handed to you by others. It must be built within you, brick by brick, boundary by boundary.
And I felt that. Deep. Because for so long I wanted to be invited into peace — not realizing peace was waiting for me to claim it. I used to think healing meant reconciling with them, but now I know it means reclaiming me.
So I’m rebuilding now — from the inside out. My room of refuge won’t have sharp stares or silent wars. It will have honesty, warmth, softness, and truth. I’ll fill it with boundaries that protect my peace and walls made of self-respect, not fear.
I may never feel safe in that living room,
but I am finally learning to feel safe in myself.
✨ Reflective Questions
Where in your life have you mistaken silence for peace?
What does a “safe space” truly look and feel like for you?
How can you start building that sanctuary within yourself — one boundary at a time?
