The Unsafe Sense of Security

At the very beginning of life, we are born into darkness and warmth—the womb—and we exist in a curled, safe position. As we grow, we never stop craving that sense of security, as if longing to return to the natural safety of the maternal body.

Whether in daily life or in the consulting room, I often hear people tell me they feel insecure, or that certain places or certain people make them feel unsafe. I usually respond with a question: If you place your sense of security in another person, is it truly safe? Many people pause to think and then answer: "No." If we truly understand that entrusting our security to someone else is itself an unsafe act, then fewer young women would say, "I like him because he makes me feel safe," or "I don't like him because he can't give me that security."

In fact, the foundation of our sense of security is closely tied to our mother. If we were wanted children, if our mother could give us care, acceptance, and tenderness in our earliest days, and attend to us with emotional stability, we would lay down a secure foundation. We would come to feel that we have worth, that we deserve love, and that we are independent, dignified beings. Slowly, we would acquire the ability to give ourselves happiness and joy, to be secure even when we are alone. But if we were unfortunate enough to have a mother who was not sufficiently present—one who could not provide a stable, safe environment, who was unresponsive to our needs, or if we were placed in the care of grandparents or others from birth because our parents were too busy or inexperienced—we might grow up feeling abandoned, unworthy of love, or that we must please others in order not to be cast aside.

As a child, because my mother was busy with work, I was raised under my father's care and my grandmother's affection. In my teenage years, I studied alone in a different city, and my relationship with my mother was one of distant intimacy. For much of that time, I felt that we were like two hedgehogs who loved each other—distance created beauty and affection, but the inability to hold each other close left me restless.

It was not until I became pregnant that I truly drew near to my mother. That year, we lived together every day, and I was purely immersed in the double role of daughter and expectant mother, finding quiet joy in both. We walked together, talked, and I watched her manage the countless small affairs of our household. Only then did I gradually come to understand her composure in the face of life's surprises, her wisdom in yielding even when she was in the right, and her broad-minded generosity. I, on the other hand, had always been sharp and unyielding—perhaps lacking that understated, low-key wisdom that so quietly eludes notice. Those days together taught me a great deal, and I began to grow in ways that felt true.

Throughout different stages of my life, I have been reconciling with and reconnecting to my mother. After my own child was born, I often took him home during holidays to visit her. In those vacation days spent by her side, I felt utterly relaxed and aimless—playing wildly with the children, with no endless work, no phone calls, no computer, living a life in an unfamiliar city that hardly felt like my own. And yet, this drifting in and out of my own life was not a state I truly enjoyed. When packing before each trip, I never brought many clothes, because I had not planned to stay long. But I often found myself wondering: what was it that kept me from leaving? Perhaps, deep down, I was trying to make up for the regrets of my childhood. I wanted to nestle beside my mother and be her most beloved child.

Everyone carries a child within—no matter how many years pass, the heart remains tender. If I were to compare the child inside me to a small animal, I think it would be a kitten: exquisitely sensitive yet proud, gentle yet not to be taken lightly, lazy in appearance but with a core of quiet tenacity.

The security of childhood cannot be reclaimed; the security of adulthood cannot be obtained from another person. Only by becoming strong and resilient ourselves, by embracing our own fragility and unease, can we possess true security. The unease comes from within—and so does the security. What we take from others can only ever be an unsafe sense of security.

I am grateful for all the unease that life has given me.