Whenever the phrase, “I’m visiting Alaska,” escapes my mouth, many will turn their heads in unison, confused as to why I’m going on vacation in a place many believe is covered in snow and freezing. I only laugh at their puzzled faces and explain that the family I hold dear moved there a long time ago, and I occasionally visit to break the constant faraway-ness between myself and them.
I recall the first time I visited during the summer. It was my first experience traveling somewhere outside of California and not Ensenada. I remember arriving at the Anchorage airport, staring out the plane window, instantly noticing the vast blue sky. The air was crisp and sharp when I took my first inhale of Palmer, Alaska. The trees were narrow and green, and the mountains behind them looked like wallpaper. It was unreal.
My summer trip to Palmer was unforgettable. My family and I camped, kayaking every morning on the rippled lake, while my mom and tía cooked breakfast. The smell of sausages and eggs surrounding the campsite made me want to never leave. The serenity of it all and the comforts of being surrounded by people I love and care about made it difficult to say goodbye. In those moments with my family and surrounded by nature, I felt the most at peace. It imprinted on my mind that Palmer would always be my safe space. It would become my escape from reality. My go-to place where I could breathe the fresh air and exhale all the worries that scrambled my brain.
I wasn’t aware of what a safe space meant during my time in Alaska. I didn’t know that the peace and calmness I felt while sitting on my tía’s squishy grey couch had anything to do with safe spaces. It wasn’t until I returned to California that the dark cloud that had dissipated in Palmer hovered over me again. I constantly sought the peace I experienced in Palmer, anywhere in California, but nothing could replicate the chill air or the scrawny trees. It took a while for me to realize that a sanctuary didn’t need to be my home, or a specific person. It’s primarily a feeling. It could be a feeling of tranquility or something that quiets the storm in your mind. It is that breath of fresh air, a moment where everything around you feels still. Nothing could disrupt it because it’s all contained in this little unburstable bubble.
My bubble in Alaska was that campground with the sparkly lake, the living room with all my tía’s green viney plants, my gentle cousins, and my silly uncle. No negative feeling could penetrate it, and I could think clearly. A safe space doesn’t have to be some faraway land that isn’t near you. It can be your bedroom or a small coffee shop. Identifying your safe space and placing yourself mentally there when needed could help clear the cloudiness in your mind. The feeling of stability can ease away the worries or stress built up in your body and mind. Whenever a rush of anxiety fills my body from recalling past experiences or being in an uncomfortable situation, it helps to imagine that glistening lake. It’s also helpful to know that refuges can be activities like gentle strokes on a canvas, observing your surroundings on a hike, or reading a book in a quiet space.
Personally, Alaska isn’t just a freezing and snow-filled state; it’s my safe space, the physical and mental shelter I turn to when life becomes a little too much for me to grapple with. What could yours be?