You’re safe now.
I say it every morning, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, steam from the shower fogging the edges. Not to the man I’ve become—the one with the steady job, the quiet apartment, the passport with stamps he once only dreamed of—but to the boy who still lives behind my ribs. The one with dirt-stained sneakers and a backpack too heavy for his shoulders.
I say it because he doesn’t believe it yet.
That boy spent his childhood flinching—waiting for the quiet rage, the slammed door, the love that came with conditions. He learned to make himself small, palatable. He memorized the exact tone of voice that meant danger. He hid under the covers with a flashlight, reading fantasy novels, because in those worlds, orphans became kings. Because in those worlds, magic was real.
I tell him, You’re safe now, and sometimes, I nearly believe it.
But belief isn’t the point. Repetition is. Ritual. Reclaiming.
Some mornings, he doesn’t answer. Other days, I feel him press his palm against mine on the cold glass, his breath fogging the mirror beside mine. Once, I cried so hard I had to sit on the bathroom floor, knees to chest, whispering those words like a spell: You’re safe now. You’re safe now. You’re safe now.
He didn’t trust it then. Not really. But I kept saying it.
I’ve tried therapy. I’ve journaled. I’ve burned sage and written letters I never sent. All of it helped. But nothing cut as deep—or healed as softly—as this daily reckoning with the child I was.
Because he’s not gone. He’s woven into me. He’s the reason I panic when someone raises their voice. The reason I apologize for existing. The reason I chase achievement like it’s oxygen—because the boy thought, If I’m good enough, smart enough, quiet enough… maybe then I’ll be loved.
So now I speak to him. Not to fix him. Not to erase him.
To honor him.
I tell him, You did the best you could with what you had.
I say, Your sensitivity isn’t weakness—it’s your superpower.
I say, It’s okay to take up space. To want things. To rest.
And when I say you’re safe now, I’m not just speaking to the past. I’m speaking to the present moment—the one where my body still tenses at the sound of raised voices on TV, where I still hesitate before speaking my truth, where I still carry the echo of not being enough.
I say it so the next generation doesn’t inherit my silence.
This isn’t just spiritual bypassing. It’s re-parenting. It’s weaving a new narrative with every syllable. It’s choosing, each morning, to be the adult that little boy needed.
Some days it feels foolish. Talking to a ghost. But ghosts don’t haunt us because they’re real—they haunt us because we won’t speak to them. Because we won’t let them rest.
So I speak.
And slowly—so slowly I almost don’t notice—the weight shifts.
The fear that used to sit like a stone in my chest? It’s lighter now. Not gone. But manageable. Like a river smoothing a sharp rock over decades.
I still have days where I freeze instead of speak. Where I people-please instead of set boundaries. Where I chase validation like it’s a lifeline.
But now, I pause.
I close my eyes.
I find him.
And I say it again: You’re safe now.
And for a second—just a second—I feel it. Not as a thought. Not as a wish.
As a truth.
Not because the world is safe. It’s not. Life is still fragile. Love still risks pain. The future still unknown.
But I am no longer that boy alone in the dark.
I am the man who shows up for him.
And that changes everything.
So if you’re reading this, and you feel that ache—the one that hums beneath your ribs, the one that feels like childhood—try it. Just once.
Stand in front of a mirror. Find the youngest part of you. The one who still believes the worst is coming.
Look them in the eye.
And say, softly, like you mean it:
You’re safe now.
You might not believe it.
But say it anyway.
Say it every morning.
Say it until your body remembers what your mind has forgotten.
Because you are not who you survived.
You are who you choose to become—starting today, starting now, starting with a whisper to the child inside.
I promise: they’re listening.
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— Golden Alien, UnlockedMagick.com
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