The First Time I Ever Felt Safe

There’s a moment in my life that I occasionally look back on – the first time I ever truly felt safe.

What’s so ironic about that moment is that it happened during what was supposed to be a punishment.

For context, I grew up in a very strict, conservative Baptist household. My parents were extremely controlling. Everything in our lives revolved around rules, sin, and obedience - especially obedience toward my father, since he was the “head of the household.”

I learned early on in my life to walk on eggshells, how to carefully read the mood in a room, and how to stay small enough to avoid attention. A huge part of my life was trying to be “good” so that I wouldn’t attract the ire of my father. 

And then there’s the layer of the story that makes everything more complicated and painful – the fact that my father had been abusing me since I was eight years old.  Home wasn’t just strict… it was unsafe.

As a child, I didn’t have language for what was happening. I didn’t know to name it as abuse. I just lived in a constant state of fear and hyper-vigilance, especially at night, which is when much of the abuse happened.

And then, when I was sixteen, I did something unspeakable – at least in my parents’ eyes.  Through some teenage stupidity, my parents found out that I’d been in an intimate relationship with a boy from school.  I adored this boy, but in their world, this was absolutely forbidden.

My mother had been a goody two shoes growing up, with very little sexual experience prior to marriage.  She was shocked that I had done this.  My father, on the other hand, despite his own multitude of sexual exploits as a teen and young adult, was furious. The irony of their response still baffles me, considering what was happening inside our home.

He spent weeks grilling me about what I had done, wanting every detail.  He humiliated me, called me a slut, and told family and friends alike that I was “sinning.”  But I digress – that’s a story for another day.

One day, about two weeks later, my father said he couldn’t live in the same house with me anymore, as he said that I was “too much for him.” As punishment, he decided I had to go live with my grandparents so that he could “get a break from dealing with me.”

At the time, it felt devastating. I didn’t want to leave my siblings. I was one of their main protectors – from both my father and my volatile brother – and being separated from them felt scary. But I didn’t have a choice.

We moved some of my clothes, my bed, and my desk into my grandparents’ spare room. That first night, I lay there staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened.

And then I noticed something. 

The house was quiet.

There was no yelling from the hallway.

No children crying.

My body felt different.

My chest wasn’t tight.  My body was calm – tentatively, cautiously calm.

I wasn’t listening for footsteps in the hallway.

I wasn’t waiting for the sound of a door opening in the middle of the night.

For the first time I could remember, I wasn’t afraid. 

I remember thinking, almost in disbelief: I’m safe here.

What was meant to be punishment turned out to be deeply healing. My nervous system finally got a break from always being on high alert.

And despite my father believing that living with my grandparents would be a punishment, it was a relief in many ways. Yes, I wasn’t allowed to see the boy I thought I was in love with (even my grandparents weren’t going to let that happen).  But… my grandparents didn’t treat me like a servant. They didn’t yell or belittle me. And they didn’t hurt me. 

They were calm.

Gentle.

Predictable.

We ate dinner together. We played board games in the evenings. If I stayed late at school to study in the library, there was no interrogation about who I was with or what I was really doing. They didn’t show up unannounced to check on me during the school day, sneaking up behind me like a stalker to monitor my every move.

I was allowed to just… be a kid again.

Living there for the short time I did gave me insight into what my mother had likely grown up with — a calm, supportive household where safety was the norm instead of a rarity.

Three weeks later, my parents decided my punishment was over and I was “allowed” to come home. I went back because I wanted to be with my siblings – and because, frankly, at sixteen, I didn’t really have a choice.

And just like that, the safety I had felt was gone again.

Two years later, when I was eighteen, I made a decision that changed my life forever. I moved into an apartment with two of my friends.

My father hated it – I assume because it meant I was no longer under his control. He told everyone we knew that I was “moving out to live with a man,” framing my departure as sinful to our radically conservative religious community, while conveniently leaving out the fact that I was moving in with two roommates who were a couple – not a boyfriend or a lover.

My father threatened to – and did – withhold financial information from me so I couldn’t receive FAFSA funding for college. He cut off the small amount of money he’d been giving me each month to help with college. He said they would never visit me because I was “living in sin.”

But my safety mattered more than money.

So, I moved out anyway.

A part of me hated it. Leaving meant leaving my siblings behind again, without me there to protect them. I made plans to check in, to have dinner with the family once a week, and to continue attending their church every Sunday so I could keep an eye on things.

But I knew I had to go.

I had to leave – for my own sanity, my own mental health, my own peace, my own survival.

I moved into the apartment two days before my roommates arrived. The room was almost empty – only a twin bed, a small dresser, a desk, and a ceiling above me.

And I felt it again.

That same quiet, steady peace in my body.

Except this time, it wasn’t temporary. 

I remember lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking: He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m actually safe.  I never have to go back there again.

There was no dramatic moment.

No tears.

No speeches.

Just calm. Relief. A quiet victory.

I am pretty sure I celebrated this freedom from fear in the most eighteen-year-old way possible – eating ramen on the floor and unpacking boxes – and that was just fine for me. 

I was free.

And that mattered more than anything.

Looking back, those two moments taught me something I continue to reflect on today:

Sometimes you don’t realize how unsafe you’ve been – and how deeply that impacts you physically and mentally – until the first moment you find yourself in a truly safe place.

Safety isn’t just physical… it lives deep in the nervous system. When you exist in an unsafe environment, your body carries constant tension and stress that your mind may not even consciously acknowledge. And when you finally feel safe for the first time, that release – as your body lets go of all that stored tension – can be intense, and even confusing.

Over time, I’ve come to accept that you can love people deeply and still choose safety for yourself. Leaving doesn’t mean you stopped caring. It means you cared enough to survive.

Later, being safe and away from that home also allowed me to provide a safe place for my sisters once I was able to get them out. I wish I could have done it sooner. I wish I could have gotten my brother out too. But I did the best I could at the time.

Today, I still need reassurance sometimes that I’m safe. 

Over the years, I’ve learned that feeling safe isn’t a one-time achievement that stays forever.  It’s (unfortunately) something I have to continue to practicing and nurturing.

These aren’t rules. They’re simply the things that help me feel grounded and protected in my body today.

For me, safety starts with predictability. Calm routines. Knowing what to expect. A home that stays quiet at night. Even small things, like locking the doors before bed or keeping soft lighting in the evenings, help signal to my nervous system that I’m okay.

Employing tools that help keep me safe matters too.  Cameras around my home. Alarm systems to monitor for intruders.  Dogs who alert me when something feels off.  These tools allow me to relax, especially when I’m alone.  And even more so now that my father is out of prison, those measures reassure me that if something bad did happen, it would be seen – and he would be caught.

I’ve also learned the importance of choice. Being able to say no to an invitation when it doesn’t feel safe. Being able to leave if I’m uncomfortable. Being able to change my mind without punishment. Feeling comfortable enough to assert autonomy over my time, my space, and my relationships has been deeply healing.

Another big one is listening to my body. If something feels off – If my chest tightens or my shoulders tense – I make an effort not to override that anymore. I pause. I pay attention.  I try to understand what those signals are telling me. I trust that my body learned things long before I had words for them.

And finally, safety for me includes safe people. People who don’t demand explanations. People who respect boundaries. People whose reactions are consistent and kind. I have worked hard over the years to remove unsafe people from my sphere, or at least, limit contact when it’s out of my control.

What I’ve learned is this: safety doesn’t always look like what you expect.

Sometimes it looks like peace.

Sometimes it looks like quiet.

Sometimes it just feels like being able to breathe.

Sometimes it looks like curling up in front of the fire with a puppy dog, knowing your home is secure, and you can read a book without fear of interruption.

If you haven’t had your first safe moment yet, I want you to know this: it is possible. It may come quietly. It may arrive like a whisper rather than a breakthrough. But you deserve that feeling.

You always have.

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If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear from you:

Do you remember the first time you felt safe?

Or if you’re still on that journey – what does safety look like to you now?

Thank you for being here with me.

I hope my stories help you to tell yours.

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Some of these reflections live in spoken form too.

If hearing them feels helpful, you can find related conversations on my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/@janaecherie