Coming at you out of nowhere with a hot take, let’s go!
As therapists, as people in spaces that prioritize mental health and well-being, we probably have all encountered the concept of “safe spaces.” It speaks to a desire I think many of us feel, and want to grant for others: safety.
Oftentimes, the concept of “safe spaces” comes along with ideas of accessibility, and being trauma-informed, and awareness of the existence of triggers, systemic oppression, and desire for healing. I graduated from university in 2017 with a minor in Women’s Studies — I am deeply, deeply familiar with these discussions. It seems like I started my degree during the surge in awareness of trauma and triggers, and oh my god the amount of debate about the validity of trigger warnings in the classroom.
I’m not about to go hard against the concept of trigger warnings. Can you imagine? What a heel-turn that would be.
Instead, what I want to talk about is the concept of safety, and why you will never see me promote anything I am involved in as a “safe space.”
First of all, I don’t think I’m blowing anyone’s mind to say that we live in an inherently unsafe world. This is obviously most true for anyone who is part of a marginalized group, who may be at risk of literal, physical violence. But we also live in a society that does not prioritize or value physical or emotion wellbeing. Capitalism promotes productivity and making money over everything else. If it’s not profitable, it’s not worth it, and safety is not profitable.
And that’s without what I’d call normal human suffering — death, disease, natural disasters. We will all experience some distress and the emotions that come with that. We — as therapists, as organizers, as humans — cannot prevent or fix this suffering. We cannot make the world “safe.”
Furthermore, I think it’s worth asking: safe for whom?
Karl Popper’s paradox of tolerance tells us that it is impossible to make a society that is truly tolerant of every kind of thought. We run into this problem with accessibility, as well: a situation that is overstimulating to one person may be perfectly stimulating for someone else. If I want queer clients to feel safe in my space, that might require making choices that would feel “unsafe” to those who hold anti-queer viewpoints. Just look at how upset some cisgender folks can get when they are asked their pronouns, for example!
“But Erin,” you might be (fairly) asking, “are those with anti-queer viewpoints truly unsafe when confronted with queer-friendly practices?”
Good question! I would say no, certainly not physically. To dig deeper: I am a non-binary person that appreciates being asked for my pronouns. I know other trans folks who do not appreciate this, for whom it stands as a reminder that they are trans and “different.” Neither of us is inherently wrong!
Which brings me to my next point: that emotional distress is not necessarily a lack of safety. That hurt is not necessarily harm. This is sticky subject, obviously, but I truly believe in the importance of discomfort for growth. As a white settler, for example, I cannot learn about systemic racism without discomfort, and that’s how it should be, I would argue.
Similarly, exploring mental health — self-esteem, trauma, grief, anger — can come with discomfort. Sometimes (oftentimes, even) we need to connect with difficult parts of ourselves in order to heal. As a therapist, I cannot promise that you will never feel discomfort in my space. Moreover, I would go so far as to say that it is irresponsible to claim or promise that. All I can promise is that I will be there with you, and that we will try to make it through together.
Finally, my last, and perhaps most important point is this: I cannot decide what makes someone else safe. I am only one person, who has only experienced the world in a specific way. While I am queer, non-binary, and neurodivergent, I am also a white settler, physically non-disabled, English-speaking, and middle class.
So not only can I not definitively decide what makes a space safe for anyone else, it also sets up a power imbalance. If I declare and insist that a space I’ve created is “safe,” what does that mean for anyone who doesn’t find it safe? Does that actually aid them in bringing those concerns to me, or trying to correct them? In my experience, no!
This is not to say that the quest to create safer spaces is useless. I think the desire is admirable, and there is still important work to be done in this arena! But I’m choosing my words carefully: safeR spaces. And I am by no means perfect, but here are a few things that stand out to me as important to consider, if you want people to generally feel safer within your space:
1. Persistence. In the same way that activism must always be, well, active (thank you Audre Lorde), creating safer spaces must always be an active process. We must always be thinking, be questioning, be discussing.
2. Collaboration! We cannot create in isolation, and we need to be able to communicate with others to find out how to meet more needs than just the ones that might occur to us. I’m a big fan of inviting feedback, and I believe this is an important part of connecting genuinely to each other.
3. Humility. This goes along with collaboration — we need to be able to invite and receive feedback. We need to not get defensive when we are offered feedback. I realize that this, of course, is easier said than done, but to circle back to an earlier point: the discomfort of feedback will not physically hurt you.
Our desire for safety comes from a good place, I think, and we owe it to ourselves, to our clients, to our profession, to give it the care that it needs. Thank you for reading my thoughts on this.