The Myth of Psychological Safety – the importance and limits of creating a ‘safe’ space

I talk a lot about psychological safety in the context of my work. Lately, I’ve heard a lot of discussion about the concept being misleading, or even taking on mythical status as something that might not be possible to promise in therapeutic, personal development and organisational development spaces. So, what does psychological safety mean, and what are its limitations, if we can offer it at all?

The expression ‘this is a safe space’ is often used in group and one-to-one environments from organisational development programmes to coaching rooms and therapeutic spaces. This usually seems to be offered with an aim of reassuring people that they can be themselves and say what they want to say in confidence without worrying about being judged. I’ll go on to explore why this is a challenging and potentially misleading promise to make, but first, let’s define what we might mean when we consider this type of ‘safety’. Amy Edmonson defines psychological safety as "The belief that one will not be punished or humiliated for speaking up with ideas, questions, concerns, or mistakes, and that the team is safe for interpersonal risk taking". This is focused specifically on a workplace context, and considers a psychologically safe environment as something that is necessary in order to promote creativity, innovation and problem solving. But the concept is relevant to any environment where people might be asked to take emotional and social risks, such as sharing or processing traumatic experiences, discussing sensitive and divisive subjects, or taking part in an activity that might make people feel vulnerable and exposed (in my experience, many somatic or embodiment based practices have an element of this).

For me, there are links between psychological safety and belonging. My experience of psychological safety is also an embodied one – I feel that I can take off some of the ‘body armour’ that I might subconsciously be wearing (in the form of muscle tension), and also that I can show up authentically as myself without looking over my shoulder for signs of danger. That is possible in a social environment when there’s a sense of connection with others, a genuine feeling that I will be met with unconditional positive regard, and a sense that, if there’s challenge or disagreement, we can get through it with minimal damage to relationships. This speaks to that sense of belonging and beginning to cultivate trusting relationships. We might achieve that through good contracting, informally building rapport, people sharing honestly about their own views and experiences, and those holding the space demonstrating consistency and reliability. All of this takes time and effort – the psychological safety isn’t just present in the room at the outset, but rather, is something that we can purposefully co-create. This is related to the concept of the ‘safe container’, which is about creating a physical and psychological space in which people feel that whatever they bring can be held and contained. A safe container might offer features like privacy and quiet, colours and textures designed to promote a sense of calm, and clear boundaries around what happens in the space, when and with whom. It may also be facilitated by practitioners who are able to demonstrate that they are skilled, compassionate and resourced enough to ‘hold’ whatever ideas, emotions and revelations arise in the space.

I’m very sensitive to the ‘feeling in the room’ and attuned to signs of feeling more or less safe and comfortable in a space, so I hugely value efforts to create a sense of psychological safety. However, I also believe that we need to add more nuance to offers of ‘safe spaces’. Those of us facilitating spaces that encourage people to be courageous and take social and emotional risks have a level of power and influence that it’s important to acknowledge, but there are limits to what we can control. In a group environment, we can collaborate to create a contract where everyone agrees to actively listen, withhold (or at least interrogate) judgement, and hold others’ confidentiality. And, should the social contract be breached, we can step in to address the situation, but it would be wildly unrealistic to guarantee that a participant will not be judged while they are sharing a personal experience or opinion. For some people, the impact of feeling judged might be negligible, while for others, this may be a deeply distressing experience. We can’t know everything that people are bringing into the space with them, and we can’t anticipate and avoid every possible trauma trigger. Some people’s traumatic experiences are significant enough to leave them feeling a constant sense of being unsafe – in this case, the best we can offer is to try to mitigate factors that might contribute to or exacerbate these feelings. One aspect of working with trauma that can help is to let people know that they have agency and control. A sense of increased psychological safety can be developed by finding a way of working that is based on co-creation and that gives permission for participants to speak up for their needs, do what they need to do in order to regulate themselves, and help to shape the session. This doesn’t negate or erase any traumatic experiences that have led to a person feeling unsafe, but it can be genuinely reassuring to feel more in control and less ‘done to’.

It seems clear that there are things we can do in order to increase a sense of belonging, safety and calm in a given space, but that there are limits to what we can realistically promise. So, is the concept of offering psychological safety unhelpful enough to be retired? I’m not convinced that psychological safety is a myth, per se. I’d suggest that there is perhaps a spectrum of sensations and emotions that might be experienced as a sense of safety or danger. And while there may be some common themes for many of us, each person will have a different experience around what they need in order to feel safe in a given environment, as well as a different interpretation and level of engagement with their own feelings around this. I’m reminded of a previous work situation where there were competing needs within my team in terms of what each of us needed in order to feel safe during challenging discussions. Some people felt less safe when they perceived tension due to unexpressed thoughts and feelings, while others felt anxious and confronted when met with direct communication about what others were thinking and feeling. This demonstrates the complexity of trying to create a space where everyone feels safe – what represents calm for one person may be a source of stress for another. So, if we can’t promise to create the conditions for feeling safe, what can we do?

Encouraging and nurturing contracting and negotiation that offers a sense of shared responsibility for (sometimes competing) needs to be met can be helpful – it’s each person’s responsibility to advocate for their own needs and to try to accommodate others’ needs. But that’s easier said than done in a space where there is a lack of trust in those who hold power and influence, so it’s important that those holding the space are able to support negotiations where necessary, and to take people’s stated needs seriously. Environments that support people to develop self-awareness and to use the resources they need in order to self-regulate and process difficult emotions may also yield better outcomes in terms of people feeling safe enough to share their authentic thoughts, feelings and experiences. Ultimately, here’s what I suggest for those holding space for others:

1.        That we don’t make promises we can’t keep – ‘this is a safe space’ would be an example of such a promise. Instead, we might state that we’re aiming to offer a ‘safer’ space, or one where people feel able to be themselves and express themselves with courage.

2.        That we support others to develop the awareness, skills and tools to feel safer in a given environment. This might include becoming aware that a space is unsafe or wrong for them, and taking action accordingly.

3.        That we see developing psychologically safer spaces as a collaborative project and a shared responsibility. We can work together to cultivate conditions where people are more likely to feel able to take risks, feel seen and heard, and experience a sense of belonging.

If you’d like to discuss how to create spaces in which people feel seen, heard, valued and as psychologically safe as possible, why not book a free exploratory call with me?

The Psychology of Voice

Or ‘The Courage to be Heard and Understood’.

When I talk about ‘the psychology of voice’, people may hope or expect to learn tactics for being heard, understood and ‘taken seriously’, based on studies that show which pitch, accent, body language or tone audiences best respond to. I believe there may be value in taking time to consider how we may be coming across when we communicate, but I do not offer tips and tools that promise to endow you with an air of authority, confidence or persuasiveness. My passion lies in wholehearted, authentic communication. I’m a Performance Psychology practitioner – I specialise in voice and communication, trauma recovery, relationship and a body psychology approach to wellbeing. 

When I think of ‘voice’, I think about being heard, speaking out against things we find unacceptable, advocating for ourselves or others, performing or presenting in front of an audience, and vocal technique (be it for speaking or singing). Things that can get in the way of any and all of these include the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, the messages we received from our parents or caregivers, how we are feeling physically and how safe we feel in the environment in which we are attempting to be heard. It’s impossible to truly separate the mental, emotional and physical aspects of voice. This is one of the reasons I’m so fascinated by it. The voice is the interface between the internal and external worlds*. A thought is an internal process, but when we decide to speak that thought, express that emotion, it exists outside of our body. Can you think of a time when you wanted to cry but made the decision to try fighting back the tears? Felt that ‘lump in the throat’ feeling as you attempted to swallow your feelings because it didn’t feel safe or socially acceptable to let them out? This is an example of how our emotions, vocal apparatus and communication interact with each other.  

How safe we feel and our self-talk has an impact on what comes out of our mouth and how. Before I understood the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of this, I experienced it first-hand. As a teenager, I was training in classical singing. Though I was a born performer with a flair for the dramatic, I suffered terribly with performance anxiety (a term I was not familiar with at the time – back then, we just called it ‘nerves’ and were encouraged to ‘toughen up’). The more formal the environment, the more nervous I became. My breathing became erratic and my voice shook fearfully. On a number of occasions, I auditioned for roles that allowed me to show a more playful, exuberant side. I remember Directors expressing shock at the sudden transformation – meanwhile, I thought ‘this is how I really sound!’  

Years later, disaster struck. A perfect vocal storm, involving a bad bout of bronchitis, a load of unprocessed trauma and a lack of rest, led to me completely losing my voice. A combination of surgery, vocal rehabilitation, breath work and Performance Psychology support helped me to find it again. A key aspect of this was the building of solid therapeutic relationships. I had to trust the people coaching me through this recovery with some of the things most precious to me: my emotions, stories and voice. This is something I hold in mind as a coach – I remember how vulnerable I felt and how important it was to be treated with care. 

As I learned about what was stopping me from expressing myself fully, the first lesson was about ‘body armour’. We tense and brace our bodies when we feel threatened, and often, we don’t let that tension go. Fear had me tied in knots, so tense that I struggled to express myself. To use our voices clearly, we need the support of our diaphragm and core muscles, and a steady flow of breath. The tension we carry in our neck, jaw, throat, chest and shoulders when we are stressed, anxious, scared or under pressure can seriously inhibit this.  

I went on to explore the ‘unsaid’. What were the things I did not feel safe enough to say? What messages had I received as I grew up about the acceptability of particular emotions? What did I tell myself when I felt those emotions and how did my body respond? Making sense of what was going on under the surface yielded surprising results, and the improvements in my communication were tangible.  

I re-built my performing experience from scratch – starting with audiences of people with whom I had built relationships of trust and moving on from there. Vocally, I am still more sensitive than I once was to physical, emotional or environmental changes, but this is often as much of a gift as it is a curse. My voice lets me know what I need, and perfectly communicates how I am feeling.  

What I experienced, and what I went on to learn in years of training is that being heard and understood requires the courage to be vulnerable. This courage can come partly from trust – both in yourself and the people around you. But sometimes, there won’t be a ‘safe person’ in the room with you at a time when you need to use your voice to speak up. There are ways to boost feelings of internal safety – though the specifics are different for everyone, I suggest starting with breathing ‘in your belly’ (i.e. using your diaphragm), grounding your feet and consciously releasing tension from your shoulders, neck and jaw. Communicating wholeheartedly, honestly and boldly is a skill you can keep developing: ‘speak your truth, even if your voice shakes’.  

For support with any of the issues mentioned here, please contact me. If you have concerns about your vocal health, talk to your GP first.  

*See ‘The Singer’s Psyche’ - research by Dr. Denise Borland for more on the psychology of voice.

Psychological safety

In recent times, the term ‘psychological safety’ seems to have become something of a buzzword. Outside the therapeutic circles I tend to move in, I’ve also heard people talk about it in relation to team meetings, political disagreements on social media platforms and other situations involving groups of people. And I must say, I am pleased to hear terms like this used in popular discourse (as long as they’re meant genuinely).  

Safety is a concept that can’t have been far from anyone’s mind lately. This may be a more practical, rather than emotional form of safety – assessing the risk of a trip to the local shop during lockdown, asking ourselves ‘should I self-isolate?' when we perceive the slightest tickle in our throats, weighing up the pros and cons of meeting a friend in the park for a socially distanced catch up. These decisions might weigh heavily on the psyche for some of us. Our perception of safety, or lack thereof, is psychological. Material risks may not be directly altered by the power of our minds – they exist regardless of our acknowledgement. But our individual relationships to managing risks have a bearing on how we go on to interact with them. At the risk of shaming different approaches to dealing with Covid-19, it’s an interesting study in our different approaches to safety. From those who were furious about joggers continuing their exercise regime in public because they assessed the risk to be critical, to those who flat out denied that anything out of the ordinary was taking place and that the virus is ‘just a flu’, perception informs behaviour, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever before seen an example of this scale where our choices could so profoundly affect the lives of others.  

When I talk about psychological safety, I’m not just referring to the mental risk assessments we all regularly carry out, but they’re a crucial part of the picture. For me, psychological safety is about creating an environment where people feel emotionally safe enough* to allow themselves to be vulnerable and to be seen and heard as they truly are. The term appears in the therapy and coaching worlds because they are about self-reflection, making sense of things that have hurt us and allowing ourselves to be witnessed in a state of vulnerability. In order to feel safe enough to do this work, we need to be able to trust the person or people we’re sharing with. Our mental risk assessment might involve asking questions like ‘will they keep my story confidential?’, ‘do they have my best interests at heart?’ and ‘are they reliable?’ As someone who is trusted with the gift of other people’s stories, emotions and thoughts, I take the responsibility of building a safe enough environment for my clients very seriously. This influences the physical environments I work in, how I set up and contract at the beginning of a relationship with a client, how I organise my time in order to be consistently available and how I respond to clients in session. Occasionally, things go wrong in a client-coach relationship – with enough rapport, trust and safety built up, we can move past any misunderstandings and use them as a powerful learning process.  

This way of thinking has influenced how I am outside of my professional practice. I tend to be acutely aware of how psychologically safe a given situation feels, and will adjust my choices accordingly. I should also add that I am a naturally risk-averse person. Or perhaps it’s less ‘natural’ and more learned. I grew up in a family that had endured an unusual amount of tragedy by the time I came along. My life, health and safety were upheld as the most precious commodity – not to be squandered by doing dangerous things. Of course, there were times in my youth when I rebelled against this as hard as I possibly could. But the tendency to shy away from risk remains. It’s something I work to override when I perceive a risk to be worth taking.  

And so, as we cautiously creep out of our homes after three months of relative isolation, my risk assessment process threatens to go into overdrive. While large gatherings are not yet permitted in London, there will soon come a time when I need to use the city’s notoriously busy public transport system. The question of trust appears in this context as I consider whether those running services will prepare adequately to manage risks, whether I can trust my fellow commuters to take necessary precautions and whether the ‘powers that be’ are offering sensible guidance (I’ll let you guess my take on that last question). And hopefully, before too long, it will be safe to congregate in larger groups again. I imagine that, in our first forays into a wider social life, many of us will experience feelings of elation, relief and a new appreciation for experiences we may have previously taken for granted. But I also expect there to be anxiety and awkwardness for those of us who tend towards a more cautious relationship with risk. How can we reach a place where we feel able to trust not only the people closest to us, but the people we share cultural and physical space with? How do we build psychological safety on a grander scale? This question feels especially pertinent in the current climate of oppression being brought fully into the light, civil unrest and resistance. And it’s one that I do not claim to have an answer to, but we can start with a moment of self-reflection. We can ask ourselves questions like ‘what makes me feel safe and why?’, ‘how do I react when I feel threatened?’ and ‘how do I react when my view of the world is challenged?’. An honest examination of these questions may yield some hard truths. It can be helpful to discuss these with someone we feel psychologically safe with. I believe that getting to know what makes us feel safe and why we feel, think and act the way we do is at least the first step towards collective safety and from there, on to healing the deep rifts in our societies. 

*I refer to ‘safe enough’ or ‘safer spaces’, rather than ‘safe spaces’ because we can only take steps that contribute to another person’s sense of safety. We can’t create it for them. If someone has a deep internal sense of being unsafe due to trauma, we can mitigate by building enough trust and a secure enough environment for them to begin working on this. It’s neither transparent, nor realistic to claim that “you will feel safe here”. 

Finding my voice

This is a cliché like the ones you hear on those ubiquitous TV talent shows, but I can’t remember a time when singing wasn’t part of my life. Although for me, that’s not strictly true – while I’ve been singing since I was quite wee, there were a few years of  vocal wilderness around a decade ago. It started with a bad bout of bronchitis and progressed to surgery and vocal rehab. A combination of bad luck, stuck emotions and a lack of rest resulted in temporary disaster but would ultimately have a happy ending.

Singing and speaking are the main things I’ve always instinctively turned to in order to process my emotions and express who I am (not to mention how I made my money – supporting people mainly through talking). Being unable to really use these resources was both devastating and shame inducing. Who was I if not a singer and professional voice user, and what was I supposed to do with all these inconvenient feelings that had nowhere to go?

This is where I may get a little evangelical about the tools that helped me get back on track and that I now have a passion for sharing with others. The NHS took care of the physical aspect of repairing my vocal apparatus but I needed to address other factors and this is where I first encountered a psychological and body work approach to vocal coaching. At Noble House, I learned about vocal rehab, an understanding of trauma and conscious breath work. I knew it was the right place for me, and still my carefully crafted defence system fought this recovery process every step of the way… until it all started to fall into place. I made leaps and bounds as a singer and a human. I belted out impossibly cheesy songs in my bedroom until my flatmate and I had fits of emotional giggles about this new development. I talked about things I’d never talked about before and felt the improvements come thick and fast.

The obvious next step in this adventure was to start training as a practitioner. It’s been a long process and an eye opening one too. While this has been going on, I’ve continued with my job supporting young people through various challenges in their lives and later, managing a small team of wonderful people who do likewise. I’ve been, and continue to be involved in various bands and music projects. I believe that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been encouraged by a friend to sort out my vocal problems. For most of us, our voices are one of the most important aspects of our identity and ability to participate in communities, to stand up to injustice and to express our feelings. I may be a little biased under the circumstances but I’d say that taking care of this aspect of self and being aware of how closely it’s connected to our emotional world and our health is of vital importance.

‘Tell your truth, find your voice, sing your song’ (Anon).