Losing the Illusion of Safety

Sean Fitzpatrick • May 5, 2025

Much of our safety is an illusion

About ten years ago, my family took a short trip into the Hill Country, west of San Antonio. It was brutally hot, and we decided to go tubing on the Frio River. The three of us stood at the launch point, uncertain. Frio means cold in Spanish, and it was; the narrow river moved fast. Our son Daniel, perhaps six at the time, clambered into his tube and pushed off. He was around a corner and out of view in a heartbeat that I felt in my throat.


We were in after him quickly, around the same corner and back in sight. The river widened for a time, and we floated together. We needed the cold and the fun, though that stretch of the Frio was not the lazy Guadalupe I'd floated in the past. When the river narrowed again, we all sped up. Around a corner, Danny's tube pulled toward the shore and caught in a little whirlpool, where he spun in slow, bumpy circles. The current shot me past him. I got to the side as quickly as possible and held onto a root to steady myself. And I watched him there, perhaps ten yards away, as fear and helplessness grew. If he fell out of the tube, I could not get to him -- the water was too fast.


My wife Melanie pulled up next to me. We coached him to push off whatever solid thing his erratic path brought his way. Finally, his foot found a tree root and he was able to get back into the current. We'd gotten lucky.


Now sixteen and driving, Danny mentioned recently that the two of us hadn't gone on a road trip for a while. It's the kind of offhand remark the parents of teenagers listen closely for. We scheduled a rare weekend away, and that beautiful stretch of the Hill Country around the Frio came to mind. And then that memory of Danny spinning, out of reach.


It doesn't take a therapist to figure out why that particular memory surfaced. Danny is behind the wheel now, and soon I won’t be riding shotgun. He's heading into the world, and I can't keep him safe -- or can't pretend I can, the way I have all these years.


Much of our safety is an illusion, though that illusion keeps us functioning, keeps us from seeing and reacting to the threats that are, actually, everywhere. They are much easier to see riding with a new driver. I have to ask myself: what illusions of safety have I accumulated – hoarded, even – that keep me from living essential parts of my life?


In America, we’re going through a time in our communal life when illusions of safety and stability are rapidly crumbling. Some few of us here have been the rarest of the rare in human history, wild outliers so insulated from scarcity and conflict that we have lost all sense of our shared reality, our shared risk, our shared responsibility. Of our shared humanity.


The Jung Center matters now because we offer a limited but essential safety, a space where we can regain our humanity as we lose those illusions. Free of the fantasy that, for some of us, some things are guaranteed – “safe”  – how much more becomes possible for us, and for our communities? We need much more possibility now, more of the real life we have been trading for our illusions.


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Dear Friends, I often find myself contemplating the absence of ritual and rites of passage in our culture—those thresholds that mark our movement through life with meaning. One of the most enduring rites we still collectively honor is summer camp. I spent seven summers at Camp Longhorn, and my wife spent eleven at Camp Mystic. Just one week before the flood devastated our beloved Hill Country, we picked up our daughter from her first summer at Camp Mystic. Camp is more than a childhood tradition—it’s a sacred rhythm. It teaches children how to separate, struggle, return, and reconnect. And as we all now know, that rhythm was violently interrupted this summer. We now sit in grief—painfully and prayerfully—with all the families affected. As a psychotherapist, I meet with many people each week, and I don’t know anyone—personally or professionally—who hasn’t been touched by this disaster. The full scope of devastation has yet to reveal itself. There are communities still beginning to understand what has been lost. Whether you’ve been directly affected or are holding space for someone who has, this is a moment that calls us to come together—healing through connection. Texas is in pain—and we must remember that we do not heal alone. In times of disaster, our most powerful medicine is connection. Whether you’ve lost everything or are bearing witness, this is a moment to lean into relationship. At The Jung Center, we have long understood that the way we navigate suffering depends on the depth and quality of the relationships we carry—including the relationship with ourselves. Grief moves through us all—sometimes loudly, sometimes in silence—and these moments of rupture are also invitations to come together. To listen. To offer. To receive. Whether you’re the one being held or the one doing the holding, remember: we heal together. With deep care and connection, John Price President, The Jung Center of Houston If you are looking for connection and community, consider joining us for our weekly Power of Community online meditations on Tuesdays and Thursdays ( https://junghouston.app.neoncrm.com/np/clients/junghouston/event.jsp?event=12358 ) or our online Meditacion en Español on August 6 ( https://junghouston.app.neoncrm.com/np/clients/junghouston/event.jsp?event=12363 ). Or consult our events calendar ( https://www.junghouston.org/events ) for a continually updated roster of classes and events. Additionally, The Jung Center's Mind Body Spirit Institute offers essays, podcasts and interviews, and a variety of guided meditations - all free - on Substack https://themindbodyspiritinstitute.substack.com/ . If you would like to give to the affected communities and families, you can do so through the Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country https://cftexashillcountry.fcsuite.com/erp/donate/create/fund?funit_id=4201 , or you can give to the Institute for Spirituality and Health’s Greater Houston Healing Collaborative https://www.paypal.com/donate?campaign_id=Q8KZJT2Y8WREJ .
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