When You’re the Safe Space and the Storm

This one hits a little differently today. I don’t know if it’s the fact I haven’t really slept, I’m already on my 2nd Red Bull, or maybe because I can’t stand it when the Gremlin doesn’t feel well, especially when it’s tummy troubles. Because at that point there isn’t shit I can do except give him the meds and make him as comfy as possible. 

Hubby is also coming through similar things with his stomach, and of course I’m doing everything to keep him hydrated. Gremlin, of course, didn’t go to school today and Hubby didn’t go in last night. What’s this currently mean for me? I have two under foot, both needing me, both needing comfort, and only one that can change his own damn channel. 

I’m the safe space. I am the one that calms the Gremlin when he has had a bad day. I am also the one that can read his emotions faster than they start to manifest. That’s essentially what being a parent of a special needs child is attempting to stay three steps ahead and hoping you went down the right rabbit hole. For my husband… I’m the dumping ground of information and he has no problem telling anyone that I’m the brains.

There’s something nobody tells you about being the strong one: people will crawl into your arms when their world is burning, but they’ll also blame you when the fire spreads.

Being the “safe space” sounds comforting, right? It makes you think of soft blankets, quiet corners, and someone’s steady heartbeat that reminds you you’re not alone. And sometimes it is like that. Sometimes being the safe space means you’re the one people can cry to at 2 a.m. without fear of judgment, or the one who can listen without flinching when someone spills their darkest secrets.

But here’s the other side: being the storm.

Storms are destructive, messy, loud, impossible to ignore. And if you’ve been through enough life or as we now call it character development. If you have enough loss, enough pain, enough people taking advantage of your kindness; you know there’s a storm in you too. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing you can do for yourself is to burn down what’s toxic, flood the bridges that only carried betrayal, or rip the roots out of relationships that were only ever weeds.

That duality, safe space and storm, can feel impossible to live with. You want to be the place people run to, but you also know what it feels like when they run through you, leaving wreckage behind. You want to be gentle, but sometimes your gentleness gets mistaken for weakness. You want to keep your storm locked away, but sometimes it slips out when you’re protecting yourself, or when someone pushes too hard against the boundaries you’ve been too tired to enforce.

Here’s the part I’ve had to learn the hard way: you don’t have to choose. You don’t have to be just the shelter or just the hurricane. You can be both—the comfort and the chaos, the arms that hold and the winds that clear. Being both doesn’t make you unstable, it makes you human.

The world is going to misunderstand you. Some people will love the safety but recoil from the storm. Others will crave your fire but resent your tenderness. That’s not your fault. It’s not your job to dilute yourself so someone else can feel comfortable.

Your balance is yours. Your fire is yours. Your peace is yours.

So if you’re like me. If you’ve ever wrestled with feeling “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath. Remember this: storms aren’t just destructive, they’re also cleansing. They strip away what can’t survive so something stronger can take root. And safe spaces aren’t just quiet, they’re alive, powerful, and sacred.

You are allowed to be both. You are allowed to be everything. And if someone can’t handle that? Then maybe they were never meant to weather your storms or rest in your safety.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble