The Illusion of Safety in Speed
A "Sunday Reflections" Series
What is it about speed that makes us feel safe? Why does moving quickly through an experience conjure images of survival? Think about it—whenever you watch a thriller, horror, or action film, you inevitably hear the desperate cry:
“RUN!”
Run from the danger. Run toward safety. Run because there is no other choice.
I’ve been sitting with this thought since a recent conversation with a dear friend. As I continue walking this spiritual path, one that invites me to go deeper within—challenging me to see parts of myself that were once hidden—I find myself seeking guidance from those I trust. Each soul, a mirror. Each insight, a key.
And now, I return to this question of speed.
How did it serve me then? And why is it no longer serving me now?
What comes to mind is hypervigilance—a state that helped me survive a traumatic childhood and more recent experiences of upheaval. Hypervigilance requires us to be alert at all times, to anticipate danger before it strikes. It teaches us to read between the lines, to sense the unspoken, to discern between a perceived threat and a real one.
But what it does not teach us—what it did not teach me—is how to tell my body the difference.
To my nervous system, every threat became a matter of survival.
In this way, speed served me well. I learned to move quickly—to enter a moment, assess its risks, and exit just as swiftly. Even in my art, I see this pattern. My daily SketchPoetic practice mirrors this rhythm: 10 minutes, 30 minutes… just enough to quench my thirst. But never long enough to quench the thirst of an arid desert, desperate for a river to run through it.
This kind of thirst requires something else.
Stillness. Depth. Endurance.
It asks me to sit in the discomfort of staying. To hold myself in the stretch of time that challenges my very sense of identity. Who am I without movement? Without the pull of responsibility? Without the endless distractions of urgency?
For years, I have been seeking this place of inner peace. And while I have not yet mastered stillness, I have tasted it. I have felt it.
In stillness, my body softens.
In stillness, I move with steadiness in the face of chaos.
In stillness, I walk with grace through every reckoning.
For so long, speed was my protector—it kept me safe, alert, always ready. But stillness is revealing something deeper. Safety is no longer the goal. Speed was a way to feel safe. Stillness is a way to feel free.
