I’ve been teaching for a while now that, in somatics, trauma is not just what happened to us, but what happens when we lose access to safety, dignity, and belonging. That framing has shaped a lot of my work. But this year, when I began teaching again, I found myself starting somewhere different. I would tell participants, almost immediately: I don’t believe in safety anymore.
Or at the very least: I want to practice something more honest to this moment, something that drops me into more solidarity. And safety doesn’t cut it.
Not because I don’t believe in care, or in the need to reduce harm. But because safety, as it is often used in our spaces—especially in the west—has drifted from its definition.
Safety is the condition of being protected from or unlikely to cause danger, risk, or injury. But in practice, it is often confused with its near enemy: comfort. The absence of friction. The guarantee that nothing difficult, nothing surprising, nothing destabilizing will happen. I also believe that we, in the west, have become entitled to safety. I believe we should question that idea of safety. Now that I have housing and feel much more stable in my life, I want to.
I am also constantly reminded that safety is a political issue that has been weaponized against people who look like me. It still is. This new flavor of fascism is clearly demonstrating it.
This is the best of times, this is the worse of times.
Fascism returns everytime we’ve tasted a little bit of freedom. And everytime it comes back, it gleams. It comes more polished, more efficient, more virtuous than ever— as if it’s coming from within. I see this inside me, too.
