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Notes from the exile

It’s safe here. 
I feel safe.

I’ve been given the tiny slice of freedom 
that should be granted to any human being 
at any moment.

It’s predictable here.

The weeks go by in numbers.
The seasons are fairly pronounced – 
the winter freezes your soul 
and the summer burns your skin.

Its a home far from home, 
for sure.

But is this home?

What is home, 
after all?
Where do we rest our hearts and minds?

It’s safe here.

I’ve learned to accept myself here.
I’ve learned to begin again here.
I’ve learned who I am here.

But I am not this place.

I’m not sure 
I’m home anymore, either.

I don’t even know 
what home is anymore.

On what ground 
am I resting my feet on?

I’ve learned that home isn’t safe.
And how do you move on from that?

How do I turn my home into a safe place –
how do I turn a safe place into my home?

Why do I still feel like I’m running away?
Why do I still feel watched?
Why do I still feel judged?


Why do I still feel sentenced 
to never reaching what I now know,
after so long, 
that I truly deserve?

It’s safe here.
But I’m always inside anyway. 

It’s safe here.

I don’t need to walk through the same streets anymore.
I don’t need to be afraid of running into anyone.
I don’t need to drive past my worst memories.

It’s safe here.

They can’t betray me here.
They can’t harass me here.
They can’t hurt me here.

It’s safe here.
But I am a stranger here.

It’s safe here.
I’m safe here.

So why am I always inside?

Picture of Carol Milters

Carol Milters

Writer, facilitator and investigator of burnout, workaholism and the culture of mental health at work.

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  1. Thaina

    Que lindo e profundo <3 Me identifiquei muito.

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