Safe spaces, what are they (not)?

Building Safety in the Therapeutic Relationship

At the heart of effective therapy lies the therapeutic relationship. Establishing a meaningful connection means more than just listening to someone’s story—it means genuinely coming to understand who the person is, in all their complexity. Therapy begins by arriving fully in the present moment, together. This presence—this shared here and now—is the foundation of safety.

I believe that a safe space does not exist in the abstract. It’s not something the therapist constructs in advance, nor is it defined by a room or a ritual. Rather, safety is co-created—an emergent property of the relationship, of how we show up with presence, care, and responsibility. It arises in the particular meeting between two human beings.

A safe space, then, is not about dissecting the past or mining for emotional content. It is about seeing the other—truly seeing—and responding to their uniqueness. It is a dynamic process of mutual recognition, acknowledging both our shared humanity and our differences. In that encounter, we make space for what is possible, and for what may feel impossible, with sensitivity and integrity.

Therapeutic safety requires relational grounding. As a therapist, my role is to be attuned, responsive, and present to the reality of your lived experience—especially the parts of it that may not have been met with support before. Before we can talk about what happened, we must first establish the groundwork for trust and mutual understanding. Only then can we begin to explore what safety means to you.

For one person, safety might mean consistency and calm. For another, it might mean openness and freedom. Both safety and unsafety are equally important in understanding the impact of past experiences and the possibilities that exist in the present.

When we reflect on what was missing from your environment during painful moments—support, presence, validation—we can begin to create something new. The moment that couldn’t be supported then, can be met now. This co-creation is not about erasing the past, but about making room for growth, meaning, and integration.

One of the central themes in this process is trust—and its counterpart, distrust.

Some people have known trust as a felt, lived experience. They were seen, heard, and believed. Their inner world was validated by others. This history of trust becomes part of their self-confidence: a deep knowing that their experience is real and worthy of respect. With such grounding, it’s easier to engage with life openly, to learn and adapt with flexibility. The body and mind know that it’s safe to move forward.

But for many, trust has not come so easily. When core experiences were dismissed, misunderstood, or left unsupported—especially in early life—distrust often becomes a protective stance. The focus shifts toward vigilance: scanning for safety, anticipating threat, doubting not only others, but also oneself. It is common to hear people say, “Maybe it’s just me,” when their reality has been repeatedly invalidated. This self-doubt is not a flaw—it’s a survival strategy.

In my work, I’ve never met anyone who only trusted, or who has felt entirely safe throughout their life. Trust and distrust exist on a spectrum. My aim is not to categorize experience as “healthy” or “unhealthy.” Instead, I strive to understand how trust and distrust operate in your life, and how they show up in the therapy room.

That’s why I invite dialogue around trust—both its presence and absence. Where do we meet with openness? Where do you feel uncertain or guarded? Can we name it, without judgment? This process of naming is powerful. It helps us understand the relational dynamics at play and brings forward the parts of your story that may have remained isolated or under-acknowledged.

Sometimes, distrust arises from subtle moments: a change in my tone, a question that felt intrusive, or a shift in my mood. These moments matter. I want to know what you experienced, not simply so I can adjust, but so I can understand you. Your history, your relational patterns, and the scenarios your body and mind are bracing for. This is how we begin to bring connection to what once lacked it—to offer presence where there was absence.

So I ask: what do you need in order to feel safe? What conditions support your sense of groundedness and trust? And how can I participate in that—not by fixing, but by showing up with sensitivity, responsiveness, and presence?

Together, we can co-create a new experience. One that restores some trust. One that meets the moment.