The Kind of Safety I Was Really Looking For

Small boat on Tomales Bay, Pt. Reyes, CA.

For a long time, I thought I was looking for love.

Then I thought I was looking for companionship.

Then I thought I was simply missing someone.

But recently, I realized I was searching for something much deeper.

I was looking for trust.

Not the kind of trust that simply means someone tells the truth or keeps their promises.

I was looking for the feeling that says,

"If I stumble, someone will catch me."

For most of my life, I learned to catch myself.

Life has a way of teaching us that.

When there is no one to carry the heavier end of life for a while, you become incredibly capable. You learn to solve problems, make difficult decisions, comfort yourself, comfort others, and keep moving forward.

People often compliment strong women.

What they don't always realize is that many strong women became strong because they had to.

Competence is a wonderful gift.

But sometimes competence grows from necessity instead of choice.

I don't dream about someone rescuing me.

I have never wanted someone to live my life for me or solve all my problems.

I simply miss knowing that once in a while, I don't have to carry everything by myself.

A friend once shared a beautiful thought about relationships. He described it as trusting someone enough to let them take the helm for a little while.

That image stayed with me.

I don't want someone to steer my ship forever.

I simply want to know that if I became tired, overwhelmed, or afraid, I could hand someone else the wheel for a little while and trust that we would still be okay.

That kind of trust is one of the greatest forms of safety I can imagine.

I was fortunate enough to know that kind of love once.

My husband had an incredible gift of emotional presence.

If something was weighing on me, he noticed.

If I needed comfort, he moved closer.

One of the first songs he ever shared with me was Stay With Me, and every time I hear it, I remember that the greatest gift he ever gave me wasn't grand gestures.

It was presence.

He stayed.

After losing him, I spent years believing I was searching for another person who could make me feel that way again.

What I didn't realize was that I first needed to learn how to stay with myself.

That lesson came in an unexpected place.

It came while walking my garden path.

It came while placing flower offerings beneath my Mother Tree.

It came while sitting quietly in my Moon Circle, listening to music called Soaking in the Presence.

Nature never asks me to become someone else.

The trees don't judge my fears.

The flowers don't rush my healing.

The earth quietly reminds me that, in this moment, I am already held.

Little by little, I realized something surprising.

The peace I had been searching for wasn't only found in another person.

It was growing inside me.

Now, when fear tries to pull me into tomorrow's worries, I return to the present.

When grief tries to pull me into yesterday's memories, I return to the present.

When my mind begins creating stories about everything that could go wrong, I return to the present.

And I remind myself:

Stay with me.

Be present.

Right now, in this moment, everything I need for this moment is here.

Do I still hope that one day I will meet a man whose presence feels like emotional home?

Of course.

I think there is something profoundly beautiful about two people becoming safe places for one another.

But I no longer believe another person must become the source of all my safety.

I have discovered something equally precious.

I have found safety in the quiet rhythm of nature.

I have found trust in the roots beneath my feet.

I have found presence in the simple act of returning to this moment.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift of all.

If love finds me again someday, I won't be asking someone to complete what is missing.

I'll simply be inviting them to walk beside me.

The trees will still be there.

My rituals will still be there.

The peace I have cultivated will still be there.

Love won't replace those things.

It will simply become another beautiful place where I can rest.

Until then, I will continue practicing the same gentle promise I now make to myself each day:

Stay with me.