Finding Safety in Unsafe Times

Lately, the world has felt heavy. I scroll through the news and see conflict after conflict (small and large scale). Its hard not to carry the quiet fear that comes with being human right now, especially a visibly queer person in a country that’s feeling less and less safe for people like me. Some days, it feels like the ground could give way at any moment.

I don’t have easy answers to help myself or anyone else. What I do have though is a body and a life that’s still here. I’m still breathing, still reaching for hope even when it feels fragile. I’m still existing and working through my shit and trying to be there for people who are also just trying to make it through every day.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately wondering if I should shrink and hide myself to stay unnoticed and under the radar. There’s always a temptation to shrink – to dress differently, to speak less, to edit out the parts of myself that feel risky. And sometimes, safety really does mean pulling back. But when I can, I choose visibility anyway. I’ve learned that surrounding myself with people who support me is of upmost importance right now and, honestly, I’ve never been more grateful to be in Portland.

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Even in the moments of fear, I’ve found things that tether me back to myself.

My dogs. Their joy is entirely uncomplicated. They don’t know about politics or outside conflict; they just know the safety of home and love. I love that they have a safe place in our home. I can look across the room and see them belly up, snoring so damn peacefully and it gives me those reminders that this home is safe and beautiful. They play unapologetically, barking, running, tackling each other, swimming, exploring every last little smell, and I’m reminded to enjoy this life even in the little moments.

Dance. I’ve been dancing more in Portland than I expected. A week ago, Nance and I competed at a queer competition and I didn’t realize how badly I needed that space. My two worlds – dance and a vibrant, ever-evolving queer community – collided, and it tore my heart wide open.

Every queer competition does that, but this one was especially needed with everything going on. I’ve also been dancing with someone new here, and I didn’t realize how joyful it feels to simply walk into a studio, learn, and create something fresh.

This is a whole new approach for me. I’m letting go of expectations (mine and others’) and choosing fun, freedom, and play.

Writing. Words give me somewhere to place the heaviness so it doesn’t just sit inside me. Lately, my master’s applications have reawakened a part of my brain I’d almost forgotten – not just the wordy-blog-type-way, but the academic, well-put-together-type-way. It has given me words to the direction and purpose that I hope to achieve.

I’ve also stepped into new roles in a queer dance organization, including writing the eNewsletter. That writing connects me with a community I hold more dear than almost any other. (If you’d like to read it, you can sign up here: NAEDA eNewsletter )

And then there’s this space: showing up here, putting words down for myself and for those of you who take the time to read. Writing, in all its forms, keeps me tethered.

Rituals. Small acts – a quiet cup of coffee surrounded by trees, walking through the woods, sharing a friendly wave or hello with our new neighbors, holding my fiancée while we watch a show – are my anchors. They’re the little moments that remind me that I’m here and I’m surrounded by beauty.

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These things don’t erase fear, but they give me ground to stand on. I think about moments where my queerness isn’t just tolerated but celebrated – on the dance floor, or in the details of my upcoming wedding (yes, we’re wedding planning… I’ll be writing plenty on this in time), or in the simple act of holding hands with someone I love in public – Nance, I’ll never stop holding your hand walking down the street, on the dance floor, or laying in bed together at the end of the day. Each of these moments feels like resistance. Each is a reminder that authenticity is still worth it. Love is worth it. We are worth it.

Hope isn’t naive. It isn’t pretending everything is fine. Hope is the stubborn choice to keep building what doesn’t exist yet. I hold onto community – the people who make space for me to be fully myself. I hold onto resilience – the proof that I’ve made it through so many storms already. I hold onto the vision of a future that’s safer, kinder, more possible than this moment.

Even when fear knocks at the door, I can answer it with hope.

If you’ve been feeling unsafe too, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. Your fear is valid, and your hope matters. May you find your own touchstones, your own ways of grounding. And may we keep reaching for each other, even in the dark.

Talk soon,

Chelsea (aka River)