In a group of nearly twenty people, it’s fascinating — and humbling — to realise that only a handful have felt truly safe.

Yesterday offered me a lot. It challenged me, triggered me, and ultimately clarified something I didn’t even know I needed to see: who actually holds space for me — and who can’t.

There are three women in particular who come to mind.

One of them has a son a little younger than me, and there’s something about the way she carries herself that puts me at ease. She’s grounded, perceptive, and has this soft, steady kind of energy. I think she sees my sensitivity — not as a flaw, but as something deeply human. Maybe she’s had to hide her own softness at times, and sees the difficulty in me wearing mine openly. There’s a quiet understanding there that doesn’t need to be spoken.

Another woman’s warmth caught me completely off guard the first few times we spoke. Her kindness isn’t performative — it’s safe. There’s no need to shrink or perform around her. She just… is. And in her presence, I feel like I can just be too.

And then there’s the one who held space for me when I shared about my psychosis and hospitalisation — two things that carry deep shame for me. What she said still echoes inside me:

“What I see here, Alex, is someone who has shown courage in the face of adversity and has overcome things that many people would crumble with.”

That’s one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to me. And she meant it.

These three women — each in their own way — have created emotional safety in a space where that’s supposed to be the norm, but often isn’t. There are others in the group who seem far too busy, scattered, or emotionally unavailable to meet anyone on a real level. Their energy is sharp. They joke when something vulnerable is shared. They expect to be soothed, even when they’re the ones causing harm. They haven’t slowed down enough to look inward.

And it’s not a judgment. Just a reflection.

I’m realising now that how busy someone is — emotionally, mentally, logistically — often correlates with how much space they can hold for me. Not just practically, but spiritually. If someone is running at full speed all the time, there’s rarely any room left for depth. And that’s okay. But it does mean I now know: those aren’t my people for the long haul.

It’s a quiet grief — the realisation that even in spaces designed for emotional growth, not everyone is capable of going there.

But it’s also a beautiful kind of clarity.

Because life seems to be slowly guiding me to the few who can.
Who listen.
Who don’t flinch.
Who reflect back something I thought might always be too much.

These are hard-won lessons — learned through quiet rejection and sacred redirection.
And even though I wish I were more universally understood, I’m learning something even better:

It’s okay if only a few people can hold me.

Because those few are everything.