What Is Safety? And How Do You Know If You’re Feeling It?
Have you ever had a moment, maybe brief, maybe rare, where your body feels at ease, time slows down just a little, and connection (with yourself or someone else) feels... possible? Where you aren’t just powering through or numbing out, but actually here, present and alive?
That’s Safety. Allow me to introduce the idea of ventral vagal safety.
For many neurodivergent folks or people with trauma histories, this kind of state can feel unfamiliar or fleeting: something you’re chasing but not quite able to name. This post will explore what ventral vagal safety is, why it matters, and how to recognize it when it shows up.
What Is the Ventral Vagal State?
Let’s start with a quick (and gentle) nervous system 101.
Your nervous system is constantly scanning for cues of safety or danger, mostly without your conscious awareness. Polyvagal Theory, developed by Dr. Stephen Porges, maps out how your autonomic nervous system responds to the world through three main pathways:
Sympathetic activation: fight-or-flight mode: anxiety, urgency, reactivity
Dorsal vagal: shutdown mode: numbness, collapse, dissociation
Ventral vagal: safety mode: connection, groundedness, curiosity
The ventral vagal branch of your nervous system supports feelings of calm connection. It’s not just about not being anxious, it’s a felt sense of being safe, socially engaged, and emotionally regulated. Think: the gentle exhale after crying, the soft presence when you’re with someone who “gets” you, the grounding you feel wrapped in a warm blanket in a quiet room.
Why It’s So Hard to Feel Safe
If you’re neurodivergent or living with trauma, your nervous system might spend more time in fight/flight or freeze than you realize. Masking, hypervigilance, overstimulation, chronic invalidation, and unsafe relationships can all make the ventral vagal state harder to access.
And over time, survival mode can feel so normal that safety feels... foreign. Even suspicious.
But here’s the thing: ventral vagal safety is a biological capacity, not a character trait. You don’t have to earn it. Your body knows the way back. It may just need some reminders.
How to Know If You’re in a Ventral Vagal State
This isn’t about getting it perfect. It’s about starting to notice the subtle shifts - those moments when something softens, or the world feels a little less threatening.
Here are some signs you may be touching into ventral vagal safety:
Mental and Emotional Cues
Your mind feels quieter or more curious, not flooded or foggy.
There’s room to feel emotions… grief, joy, affection… without panic.
You’re not trying to fix yourself in that moment.
Physical and Sensory Cues
Your breathing is slower, deeper.
Your jaw, shoulders, or stomach are less tense.
Sounds, smells, or textures feel less intrusive, maybe even enjoyable.
The space around you feels a little more friendly.
Relational Cues
You feel open to connecting with someone, even briefly.
Eye contact feels tolerable or even comforting.
You can hear someone’s voice and feel soothed, not on edge.
These signs don’t have to all be present and they won’t feel the same every time. But if one or two are showing up, you might be in ventral vagal territory.
Small Clues You’re Moving Toward It
Sometimes you’re not there, but you’re getting closer. And that matters.
You notice your shoulders tensing, and you sigh instead of bracing.
You reach out to a friend, even if you’re unsure what to say.
You turn off a loud video, not because you “should,” but because it feels better.
You feel bored instead of numb. Irritated instead of shut down. Those are signs of thawing.
We’re not always trying to force our way into calm. We’re learning to track when our body is reaching for it and gently supporting that reach.
How to Build More Access to Ventral Vagal Safety
There’s no quick fix. But safety can be cultivated moment by moment.
Some ways people start reconnecting with ventral vagal regulation:
Orienting: Looking around your space slowly, noticing light, color, shapes; reminding your body you’re here, now, and not in danger.
Grounding: Touching something textured, planting your feet, feeling gravity.
Co-regulation: Being around someone kind and steady. This could be a person, animal, or even a voice on a podcast.
Gentle movement: Stretching, walking, rocking: things that let your body feel itself.
Boundaries: Creating environments that feel less overwhelming or performative. (Masking less, avoiding known triggers, seeking sensory-friendly spaces.)
Therapy, especially somatically-oriented therapy, can help you recognize and expand these states. So they feel less foreign and more like home.
A Teensy Note of Encouragement
If safety feels far away, that’s not your fault. Your nervous system adapted to what it needed to survive.
But even so: your body remembers how to feel safe. Not perfectly. Not all the time. But enough. And from there, new things become possible: connection, rest, creativity, clarity, even play.
Start by noticing the moments that feel a little lighter. Those are openings. Those are enough.
Want More Support?
If you’re interested in learning more about how therapy can help you feel safer in your body and relationships, you’re in the right place!
There are many ways we can work together. Sign up for my newsletter for a monthly dose of inspiration, connection, and glimmers of hope.
I’m currently accepting new clients for The Haven: An Interpersonal Learning Lab. A space to explore who you are in relationship, at your own pace with ongoing opportunities to understand how your nervous system and relational history shape your experience with others
You don’t have to figure it all out alone.
May the Force be with you,
Leanna
Disclaimer: the information provided is for informational purposes only and is not intended as professional advice. The information does not constitute medical advice or diagnosis.
A Note on the Writing Process
I write these blog posts with the intention of offering thoughtful, compassionate reflections for neurodivergent individuals navigating life, healing, and therapy. To help with structure and flow, I sometimes use AI-assisted tools as part of my writing process. These tools support clarity and help me bring ideas to life more efficiently, but every post is based on my clinical experience, voice, and perspective.
Just like therapy, writing is a collaborative process, and I see AI as a quiet helper behind the scenes and not a replacement for human insight, depth, or care.
