Becoming Safe for Yourself Again

I took three weeks off.

I told myself I was going out into the world to rest, to explore, and maybe even rediscover myself. What I realized is that I didn’t just spend those three weeks exploring and resting.

I spent three weeks remembering.

First, it was remembering my father and finally being able to lay him to rest at Arlington National Cemetery. It was beautiful, heartbreaking, and sacred all at once. A chapter that had been waiting to close finally did.

But most of my remembering happened in much smaller ways.

It happened in a bowl of chicken turmeric soup. It happened during long baths. It happened when I became obsessed with a television show and found myself cackling with a friend over a line of dialogue like a couple of teenagers. It happened when I discovered a laundry detergent that made my sheets smell so good I couldn’t wait to get into bed.

And unexpectedly, it happened through a can of sardines.

Now, apparently, sardines are having a moment. TikTok discovered them, and suddenly everybody is talking about them. As is often the case, something that has existed in Black communities and working-class communities forever is now being rediscovered and repackaged as the latest thing.

Me? I just know sardines as something my dad and I used to eat together.

You see, when I was little, my father worked swing shift. One of my earliest memories is waiting for him to come home. I’m probably two or three years old, standing in my crib long after I should have been asleep, listening for the sound of the door and waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Then finally hearing him come in.

He’d walk into my room, scoop me up, and carry me downstairs. Then he’d make something to eat and feed me little bites off his plate. The best nights were steak nights. But sometimes it was something else.

Sometimes it was sardines.

So when I sat down a few weeks ago with my strange little “girl dinner” of sardines, banana peppers, pickled onions, and crackers, I found something unexpected:

A little touch of grief.

And a whole lot of love.

That can of sardines cracked something open that had been sealed for a long time.

For years, I’ve been carrying a lot: grief, responsibility, uncertainty, and, if I’m being honest, burnout.

When enough hard things happen, you develop this low-grade anxiety that follows you around everywhere. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s just sitting quietly in the corner, asking:

“So...what fresh nonsense are we preparing for today?”

When enough hard things happen, survival becomes a lifestyle. You stop preparing for life and start preparing for disaster. And if you’re not careful, you can organize your entire life around the possibility of something bad happening.

That’s what happened to me.

Not all at once. Just slowly and quietly, over time.

A part of me faded into the background while the more urgent versions of myself took the wheel.

The responsible one.

The one who always has a plan.

The one who knows where the backup plan is.

The one who already has a backup plan for the backup plan.

Meanwhile, curiosity, creativity, and whimsy got pushed further and further out of view.

Slight tangent here, but I don’t think we talk enough about whimsy.

For me, whimsy is anything that brings delight. It’s what lights you up. It’s the rabbit hole you absolutely did not need to go down, but somehow spent three hours researching anyway. It’s the book that makes you kick your feet. It’s the scent that makes you pause and smile. It’s the television show that makes you immediately text your friends.

It’s the thing that reminds you you’re still alive.

Survival is important. But survival creates a really dreary interior life. There isn’t a lot of room for delight when your entire emotional floor plan is built around emergency preparedness.

Somewhere over these last few weeks, I realized my interior life needed a redesign.

I needed to become my own interior decorator. And redesigning that interior meant looking honestly at what I'd been mistaking for joy.

One of the strangest things I’ve realized during this thaw is that laughing isn’t the same thing as delight.

I’ve always been quick with a laugh. In fact, allow me a brief moment to humble brag: I’m really funny. My friends will happily confirm this. I’ve spent a lot of my life making other people laugh.

But being funny isn’t the same thing as being joyful. And getting through the day isn’t the same thing as being alive.

I could make people laugh all day long and still not make enough room for my own joy. I could be resilient and still be disconnected from delight. I could be surviving and still not feel fully alive.

You see, I lost access to delight.

Not permanently.

Just long enough to realize how much I missed it when it started coming back.

I know how that sounds, given everything going on in the world.

“Kelley, have you looked outside?” And yes. I have.

The world feels hard right now. The last three weeks didn’t magically make it any easier. The news didn’t improve. My uncertainty didn’t disappear. My grief didn’t magically resolve itself.

But I’m here to make a case for whimsy anyway.

Actually, I’m here to make a case that we need whimsy the most when times are hard. Because making space for it is life-changing.
The soup that makes me sigh in comfort,

the books that make me kick my feet with joy,

my little obsessions, rabbit holes, and wonder…

These are the things that are saving my life.

Every small act of care uncovered a forgotten piece of myself. A version of Kelley who had been patiently waiting for me to come find her.

What I’ve learned is that safety and healing go hand in hand. When you create safety, whimsy starts showing up again. Delight follows. Play follows. The best darn laundry detergent you’ve ever smelled in your life follows.

It's been three weeks, and life hasn’t gotten objectively easier.

I just got my whimsy back.

I’m getting my delight back.

And honestly?

I think we need both now more than ever.

I took three weeks off. But I gained something far more important. I’m not becoming someone new. I’m becoming familiar again. I’m reconnecting with parts of myself I thought were lost.

I’m rediscovering Kelley.

And I think I found her.

I redecorated my interior life. Next week, I want to tell you what that means for this space, too.