Why Hiding Feels Safe – But Keeps Us Stuck
Six years ago, we met Bug at a rescue centre. Though we didn’t see him at first—he was hiding in a box—a moment of bravery brought him out, and he chose us. It was as if he’d known us all along.
Bug has had a rough start; his anxiousness around new or noisy people and pets suggests he’s been through some tough times. But in his quiet moments, he’s a wonderfully chilled house cat with a big heart, full of love for us. And I have so much love for him in return. Pets really are part of the family, aren’t they?
Imagine my heartbreak when one late night, Bug dashed out the front door. Immediately panicked, he darted under cars and down the street. For hours, I searched, called, and waited, but there was no sign of him.
A small search party gathered the next morning, and 16 hours later, a neighbour spotted him under a car, wide-eyed and trembling. Our street, usually buzzing with cars, buses, and people, is overwhelming for a quiet, sensitive soul like Bug. In his panic, he wedged himself into a small space next to a car’s engine. With new sounds and strangers around, his instinct was to flee and hide, convinced it would keep him safe. In his fear, he couldn’t let himself be seen or helped, even as he let out the occasional “help me” meow.
This moment brought a wave of recognition over me. I, too, have lived much of my life in “flight or freeze” mode with social anxiety. My mantra was “stay small, stay safe,” even when I yearned for connection. Avoiding events, skipping university, hiding away in toilet cubicles, and sometimes numbing myself with alcohol—it all felt safer than being seen. The “flight” response became an invisible cage, keeping me small. But, like Bug, I wasn’t truly safe, and it often left me feeling even more isolated.
Bug thought his actions were protecting him, but instead, he was in danger, blocking the very help he needed. And just as his attempts to stay safe kept him hidden, my attempts to avoid “being seen” often hurt me, worsening those familiar feelings of anxiety. We know that, when we’re acting from a place of fear, we can’t make the best choices for ourselves. The stress clouds our judgment.
It took four hours and two dismantled cars, but we finally brought Bug home. When I held him—an oily, panicked little bundle—I expected him to struggle as he always did. But he was too tired to fight. It had been 20 long hours without his comforts, and sensing he was safe in my arms, he sank into them at last.
Today, I’m sore and bruised from crawling under cars, and my clothes are oil-stained. But that’s nothing compared to the journey Bug endured, and I feel a deep gratitude—for Bug’s safe return, for the neighbours and family who rallied around us, and for the way this experience helped me see myself more compassionately. There were about 22 people involved in bringing him home—a real community effort on a street where neighbours hardly know each other.
In all this, I’m reminded that, unlike Bug, we have the power to choose how we respond to our fears. With practice, we can soften that instinct to hide, to protect ourselves in ways that no longer serve us. We can give ourselves permission to change old patterns, to grow, to be seen.
My efforts to “stay small” and invisible hurt me more than I realised. What about you? How’s it working for you?
If you’re ready to explore this journey and grow, download our workbook to gently stretch your comfort zone and build confidence, one small step at a time.