“The Sound of Safety”
There’s a sound my children make when they melt into me.
It’s not really a sound so much as a release. A deep, involuntary exhale when their soul meets mine—like the burdens of the day have been waiting in their lungs for permission to leave, and they can finally, truly rest.
It happens in the doorway after an upset.
In the kitchen after a scraped knee.
On the couch after a long, loud day when nothing seemed to go right.
Over the years, I’ve realized it isn’t intentional—it just happens. The body knows before the mind does: this is safe now.
I’ve felt it in so many small, ordinary moments. Tiny fists tangled in my shirt. A forehead pressed under my chin. Muscles stiff with anger or fear. Their breath catches for a moment, holding everything in, building up—and then, exhale. And suddenly, they’re just a little heavier in my arms, giving me the privilege of carrying what they no longer can.
The toddler weeping over the injustice of a broken toy.
The teenager, taller than me, collapsing after a fight with a best friend.
Even the baby, before words or memory, sighing as though she’d been holding her breath for centuries and had finally remembered how to let it go.
It is one of the greatest privileges of my life—
that sound, that softening, that holy weight.
Because it tells me that, despite all the ways I wonder if I’m getting this parenting thing right, I am their rest. Their refuge from the world beyond our walls.
Not because I can fix everything—some things aren’t mine to fix.
Not because I always have the right words—I rarely do.
But because my arms, tattooed and tired as they are, still speak safety in a language my children don’t have to translate.
That’s what presence is.
That’s what knowing feels like.
And maybe, if we keep showing our children this kind of presence, they’ll carry it forward one day—to their own children, their own friends, their own circles. Because this deep exhale, this being fully seen, fully loved, fully carried, is something we learn by receiving it first.
I can’t help but believe the world would feel a little less treacherous if more of us tried to be that place for someone else—
A place where the breath comes easily.
Where the weight grows lighter.
Where nothing is required in return.
Because sometimes the holiest gift you can give another person isn’t advice or solutions. It’s this:
a safe silence, a steady embrace, or a witnessed moment where they remember they are not alone—and they can finally breathe again, wrapped in the quiet knowing that everything will, somehow, be alright.
With You Holding the Safe Places,
Emily
Ash and Bloom