I never thought I needed a safe space. As a kid, I was always gloriously on top of things. But like so many others who were overachieving youngsters, I couldn’t keep up the pace. An underlying current of anxiety had crept up on me as a teenager, and by college it threatened to drown me.

I couldn’t breathe.

I had lived my entire life — up until now — in the fresh-air of the country. A stressful day could be solved by a walk through the fields or a dip in the creek. The campus felt like a cage, and the city beyond it like a maze I could not escape. Too much concrete. Too loud. And no one smiled.

Seven blocks north was a mountain. Quite literally, a mountain. Far from tranquil and serene, students had been warned off visiting the mountain with tales of drug-addled hobos and violent muggings. Like the city surrounding it, it was scummy, and you’d be better served staying on campus.

I could not stay on campus, and so I walked. I didn’t have a map or a plan really, I just knew if I went north I would go…

well, up.

The houses began to spread apart. The roads became empty and the air became still. As I approached the seventh block, the sidewalk I was standing on became crumbled and cracked. My shoes scuffed grass; I had made it. Before me stood a trail, welcoming me to my safe space. Suddenly energized, my lungs free to breathe, I ran.

I ran.

And I didn’t stop until the city was beneath me.