Comfort Isn't Safety: How We Mistake Self-Abandonment for Security

Summary: There’s a lie we tell ourselves, one so insidious that it sneaks in under the radar and nestles into our bones before we ever get the chance to question it.

The lie is "What is comfortable is safe."

It sounds true, doesn’t it? We assume that if something feels familiar, if we can predict its edges and contours, then it must be the right path. The brain loves predictability. It would rather rerun an old, painful program than risk the unknown—even if the unknown holds the potential for something better.

This is how we end up mistaking self-abandonment for security, thinking that just because we’ve always treated ourselves like garbage, we must deserve it.

But here’s the thing:

Comfortable isn’t safe. Comfortable is just known.

And when the known is self-betrayal, when we were raised in environments that made suffering feel like home, we will walk ourselves into the fire again and again, mistaking the warmth of the flames for love.

We don’t choose self-abandonment because we want to. We choose it because it was modeled for us. Somewhere along the line, we were taught—implicitly or explicitly—that our needs were too much, that our emotions were burdensome, that our existence was conditional on how useful, agreeable, or accommodating we were to others.

Maybe we had parents who only showed affection when we performed well, or caregivers who withdrew when we expressed big feelings. Maybe our home was a battlefield, and the only way to survive was to make ourselves as small and unobtrusive as possible.

Whatever the specifics, the lesson was learned: to be safe, we must sacrifice ourselves.

And so, we adapt. We become people pleasers, perfectionists, hyper-independent warriors who never ask for help. We develop an internal monologue that sounds less like a loving parent and more like an abusive coach screaming, “Get your shit together,” every time we falter. We ignore our exhaustion, override our boundaries, and mistake productivity for worthiness.

It feels comfortable because it’s what we know. It feels safe because, at some point, it was safer than the alternative. But that doesn’t mean it’s good for us.

The cruel irony of self-abandonment is that the more we do it, the more the world reflects back to us a reality in which we must continue doing it. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

When we consistently betray our own needs, we end up in relationships where our needs are ignored.

When we believe that our worth is tied to how much we give, we find ourselves surrounded by people who take without hesitation.

When we have spent a lifetime proving we can do everything alone, we end up alone.

And with every iteration, every loop of this pattern, we reinforce the belief that this is just how life is.

We tell ourselves:

See? I knew I couldn’t rely on anyone.

See? No one really cares about me unless I’m useful to them.

See? When I rest, everything falls apart.

See? I don’t deserve good things because look how quickly they disappear when I have them.

And yet, the common denominator isn’t the world conspiring against us. It’s the fact that our nervous system craves the familiar. It mistakes the predictable for the safe. The unknown—even when it offers healing—can feel more threatening than the pain we already know.

Inside every one of us is a younger version of ourselves who just wanted to be loved, protected, and seen. When we engage in self-abandonment, we are reenacting the original betrayal—but this time, we’re the ones doing it.

When we override our exhaustion and push through, we tell our inner child, Your needs don’t matter.

When we settle for relationships where we are unseen, we tell our inner child, You are not worthy of being cherished.

When we ignore the voice inside that says, I don’t want to do this, we tell our inner child, Your voice is meaningless.

And with every act of self-betrayal, we reinforce the original wound. We become the very person who hurt us, keeping the cycle alive.

Here’s the paradox:

Healing is not comfortable. Healing, at first, feels like a threat.

When we start setting boundaries, our nervous system panics. When we rest instead of overworking, we feel guilty. When we demand more from our relationships, we fear abandonment. When we stop abandoning ourselves, we experience discomfort so profound it can feel like grief.

Because healing means stepping into the unknown. It means unlearning the ways we’ve kept ourselves small. It means telling the terrified parts of ourselves, I know this is scary, but we are not going back.

The first time we say no without over-explaining, we will feel the echoes of every time we were punished for doing so. The first time we let ourselves be seen in our full, messy humanity, we will feel like we are standing naked in a storm. The first time we rest without justification, we will feel like the walls will cave in.

But this is the work. This is the real safety—choosing, again and again, to stay with ourselves. To resist the pull of old wounds.

To remind our inner child, You are not alone anymore. I am here now.

So, if comfortable isn’t safe, what is?

True safety is not found in predictability. It is found in self-loyalty.

It is found in our willingness to sit with discomfort and not run back to what hurt us just because it’s familiar.

It looks like:

True safety is built, brick by brick, every time we choose self-trust over self-betrayal.

It is not given to us. It is not found in another person. It is something we must cultivate within ourselves.

The hardest thing to accept is that just because something feels true does not mean it is true. Just because we have lived our whole lives believing we are not worthy of care does not mean we are not.

Just because we have been abandoned does not mean we must keep abandoning ourselves.

We are not our wounds. We are not the stories we were told about ourselves. We are not doomed to relive the past.

We can choose something different.

But we must be willing to leave the comfort of our suffering to do so. And that? That is the bravest thing we will ever do.

Healing starts with one decision: to stay with yourself, even when it’s uncomfortable. What will that decision be for you today?