I have similar memories of childhood safe havens. I spent much of my time perched in the branches of my favorite maple tree; spread out in the treehouse my dad built a third of the way up a towering, three-trunk oak; and hidden away in forest glades with my faithful German shepherd, Boomer, at my side. Indoors, there was the nook between the foot of my bed and my bookshelves — the perfect place to make up a “mouse house” where I could spend entire winter afternoons nestled in blankets with books and journals for company and Cheerios for snacks. :)

Looking back, it was not so much about the physical space I was in, but the feeling of being safely away from the rest of the world where I could, as you said, “be myself.” There was something magical about thriving in solitude, and each of my secret safe havens gave me that chance to be happily on my own. Thanks for the trip down memory lane.