Unsafe Haven
Author’s Note: I wrote this years ago while working in crisis response—when the weight of witnessing others’ pain felt both unbearable and impossible to ignore. This reflection came from a place of de
Do people know?
Can they see it in my face?
In the way I carry my shoulders?
I walk the same streets, cross the same intersections, pass the same people—
but I can never see them the same way again.
On my way to work, I’m already bracing for the helpless voices on the other end of the line—
people needing just one person to believe them.
On my two days off, I sit with friends at a restaurant, quietly wondering about the untold stories of the strangers around me.
Once your eyes have been opened to this violent neglect that’s been normalized, they can never be shut again.
Once you’ve carried that overwhelming, staggering burden—
you can never truly set it down.
I remember the day I had to leave work…
There was a young mom with her toddler—no place to go.
I left them both on the street.
And then I walked into a store and bought myself dinner.
Can the person at the register see it?
As I hand over my credit card,
as I smile and say thank you—
can they feel what I carry?
When I walk into my apartment building,
I wonder if the woman at the front desk can sense the day I’ve had—
the calls I took,
the stories I heard.
I wonder if she carries a past of her own, quietly.
And as I lay my head down at night in this safe haven of mine,
I think of my fellow responders—
still out there, still answering someone else’s call.
Someone else’s plea for help.
And I can’t help but wonder:
How can this place be safe
when their pain,
their vulnerability,
their never-ending nightmare—
is everywhere I look
?