The Myth of the "Safe Space"—When Protection Becomes Control

Safe space.

The phrase grates on me every time it's uttered. We all pretend we know what it means. Some of us want to pretend it's a good thing. But let's be honest. A "safe space" is rarely safe at all. It's marketed as sanctuary, wrapped in soft language and good intentions, usually with one self-appointed guardian standing at the door like some benevolent superhero promising protection to all who enter.

But underneath that promise sits something far less noble—control. Total control. Control of the tone, the rules, the boundaries, the acceptable thoughts and the acceptable feelings. And every time I hear someone proudly declare their space "safe," I can't help but wonder what's actually going on in their head. What do they think they are offering? What do they believe they are shielding people from? What does safe even mean to the person who gets to define it?

Because the one who proclaims the safe space is also the one who decides what must be kept out.

Think about it for a moment. Isn't there something quietly condescending—maybe even outright insulting—about being told I need to be kept safe from anything at all? As if I'm too delicate to face the world as it is. As if I require shielding, cushioning, filtering. The very idea suggests I'm incapable, fragile, and in need of someone else's judgement to decide what I can or cannot handle.

Because beneath the gentle language of "protection" lurks a far more patronizing message: You are weak. You cannot be trusted with the full reality of things. I will decide what you're allowed to encounter so you don't break.

That's not safety. That's infantilization dressed up as care.

The reason I bring this up is because—after not hearing the term for quite some time—it resurfaced in the middle of a full-blown rant by a certain YouTuber. I won't name him, but he's someone who normally talks about completely different topics. Yet there he was, saying the quiet parts out loud while explaining why he deleted a particular comment. Why he actually deletes many comments. His commentary not only spoke of his safe space, but it also defined what it actually is.

Again, the quiet part was spoken out loud, which is why it struck me.

Now, I understand the "my house, my rules" argument. It's his channel. He can shape it however he wants and curate whatever comments he chooses. And for the record, none of this had anything to do with anything I ever posted. But the mindset behind his explanation—that's what caught my attention.

I swear, had I not seen the video made on a stony, forested trail somewhere in Nova Scotia, Canada, I might have thought it came right from the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun in North Korea. Because again, that's the mentality of one who creates a safe space. It's not to protect all who enter. It's to protect the proclaimer of the safe space itself. It's to protect something deep within himself he deeply fears—the possibility of a truth other than his own.

What he revealed wasn't strength. It was fragility. The glimpse into the "real" man behind the camera was far from flattering. The so-called "protector" came off as far more delicate than the people he claimed to be shielding. And that's the uncomfortable truth about most safe spaces. The person enforcing the safety is often the one who needs the insulation the most.

What I'm offering here is a warning. When someone insists, "You need to feel safe," you have to stop and ask: what is he afraid of? Is it the truth? Is it the presence of opposing viewpoints that might force him to examine his own beliefs? Is he afraid of being wrong? Afraid of thinking before reacting? Afraid that one small shard of common sense might unravel the entire worldview he's built?

You have to listen closely to the language. That's where the tells are. "I will delete hurtful, harmful, or hateful comments." Define that. He doesn't, of course. Those words mean whatever he decides they mean, filtered through his own worldview and personal sensitivities. 

And let's not forget. Not too long ago, people were genuinely outraged over pancake syrup. So "harmful" has a pretty broad definition.

Then there's "I don't like to argue with people." Again—define argue. Because the way he framed it matched exactly what I suspected. What he really meant was: I don't want comments that challenge my worldview, require me to explain myself, or force me into an open discussion. 

And then the big one. "I don't allow misinformation." At first glance, that sounds noble. But listen closely. If anything can be labeled misinformation, then he gets to decide what is or isn't true. No debate. No nuance. No conversation. Just a single gatekeeper declaring reality.

So again, I have to ask. What exactly am I being "protected" from? And why is it his job to decide what information I am allowed to hear and what must be hidden away? That's the unsettling part. That's where the control comes in. It's the same mechanism that propaganda relies on—one person determining the truth and silencing every competing thought. That isn't healthy. That isn't safe. In fact, it's one of the most dangerous environments we could ever find ourselves trapped in.

This isn't meant as a personal attack on the YouTuber or even his channel. But his comments made me pause, because what he described is precisely why we shouldn't have "safe spaces." It's exactly why we need open discussions—especially the uncomfortable ones, the challenging ones, the ones that force us to think.

It's far more dangerous to leave people with their heads buried in the sand than to let them hear everything and decide for themselves what's true or false, good or bad, hurtful or hateful, or whatever label someone wants to slap on an idea.

In other words, it's much safer for me to see Aunt Jemimah on the shelves at the store and decide for myself whether or not I want to support any meaning behind it or buy Log Cabin instead. I want the ability to decide for myself. And I want the freedom to discuss my thoughts and hear the thoughts of others about it.

No one needs to protect me from pancake syrup. I don't need for my grocery aisles to be made into a "safe space." Or anywhere else for that matter.

Sure, it's just a YouTube channel. But the mindset behind the video—the belief that people must be shielded from ideas—is where the real danger lies. When one person shapes the world for everyone else, when he filters reality and dictates what thoughts are acceptable, we don't become safer. We become vulnerable. The gears of control start turning. Independent thought shuts down. Minds weaken. Spirits shrink. And piece by piece, our individuality gets stripped away.

Again, my issue is not with this YouTuber himself. He's just the anecdote—the latest example, the most recent voice echoing this troubling notion of a "safe space." He's not the problem. The idea is. The mindset is. The belief that safety comes from shielding people rather than strengthening them.

And here's the irony: the only reason he can express his views so freely is because he lives in a world that allows open expression in the first place. Freedom makes his "safe space" possible—not the other way around.

So, we circle back to where we began. The illusion of safety. A "safe space" promises protection, but more often it becomes a cage—one built not to shelter people from harm, but to shelter its creator from discomfort. The moment one person claims the authority to decide what others may hear, say, or think, the space stops being safe and starts becoming controlled. True safety doesn't come from walls or filters or guardians at the gate. It comes from the freedom to confront ideas, challenge assumptions, and grow stronger through the friction of honest conversation. If anything needs protecting, it's that freedom—not the fragile feelings of those who fear it.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer

Liberal Arguments Collapse Under their Own Weight: Just Take Renee Good and ICE

On the issue of Renee Good, ICE, the border, and on so many other issues, there's a point where liberal mental gymnastics becomes impossible to ignore.

When someone finds themselves defending criminals or excusing blatantly criminal behavior—not because they believe in it, but because it helps them attack something else they dislike—while simultaneously preaching about "law and order," that's the moment the alarm bells should go off for them. That's when something should click. Because it's a contradiction so loud even a deaf person could at least feel it.

But that's the core problem, isn't it? These arguments don't make sense because they're not built on anything solid. They're built on slogans. On feelings. They only fit on bumper stickers. On whatever sounds good in the moment. And it doesn't stop at one issue—it's woven into their entire worldview (that is, if you can accept, they actually have a view on anything, truly). They literally live in a constant state of contradiction.

Take a few examples.

Women must be defined clearly and biologically if we're talking about equal pay or opportunity—but the definition suddenly shifts when the conversation turns to say, sports, and someone needs to be "protected." Rather than conjoin the two arguments, they simply separate the two and make a new one, using an entirely new basis and premise to try and bring it home.

Abortion must be celebrated as a right, yet we must also accept that executing a convicted murderer is immoral. They can't define the two things as separate, very different things.

The pattern is unmistakable. These aren't positions. They're oppositions. The stances themselves need not be coherent or cohesive. They only need to resist something else. And it's the age-old response you get—that's not what we're talking about right now—when you try to check them on it.

Once the opposition is chosen, everything around it is bent, stretched, or redefined to fit—even when it defies logic, consistency, basic common sense, or paints them into a corner on another topic.

They're not arguments based on principle. They're arguments based on reflex. When that becomes the guiding force, nothing can make sense.

In order to accept Good was right and ICE was wrong, you have to bend and twist the narrative in remarkable ways to make it all come together, and inevitably...

Contradict yourself.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer

After Maduro: The Real Test Begins

Can Trump make Venezuela great again?

It's a provocative question, but not an unreasonable one now that Nicolás Maduro is out of power, in U.S. custody, and the United States has announced it will oversee the country's transition. The moment demands honesty: even when the U.S. intervenes with the best of intentions, the outcomes in these other nations haven't always been improvements. That's not an indictment of America or its motives—it's simply an acknowledgement of history.

I say this as someone who generally supports efforts to remove destructive leaders. When bad actors hold power, ordinary people pay the price. And if there's one thing I've learned from talking to people across the world online, it's that most of us—regardless of culture, religion, or geography—want the same basic things. We want stability. We want opportunity. We want a future for our children and our grandchildren greater than our own.

And we want to live in general safety and comfort.

The tragedy is that those universal desires often get twisted by those who rule. Power thrives on division. Leaders manufacture enemies, crises, and threats because fear is a reliable tool for control. It keeps people distracted, divided and dependent.

Now that Maduro is gone, I want us to get this one right. I'd prefer we got all of them right, but this is the moment in front of us. And the stakes aren't about America's reputation or some future trophy on a shelf. They're about the people of Venezuela—people who have endured decades of hardship, corruption, and collapse.

This was once one of the wealthiest nations in Latin America. Today, many Venezuelans live with shortages of basic goods, a shattered economy, and a daily grind that's a constant struggle for mere survival. They deserve more than that. They deserve a chance to rebuild, to breathe, and to hope again.

Frankly, all people deserve that.

With Maduro removed, that chance exists—but it's fragile. How the U.S. chooses to intervene will ultimately now shape whether Venezuela rises or sinks further. Our actions can accelerate recovery or derail it. It depends on the strategy, the execution, and—most importantly—how the Venezuelan people themselves perceive and participate in the process.

As for the reasons behind the U.S. action, opinions will vary widely. But across political lines, there's broad agreement on at least one point—or perhaps there should be. Maduro's leadership has not served the Venezuelan people well, nor has it contributed positively to regional stability. His documented involvement in narcoterrorism has had devastating consequences far beyond Venezuela's borders.

What the U.S. will need to confront first is the machinery of the drug cartels. That won't be a simple task. It's similar to when we try to extinguish power in other countries from well-funded and well-organized terror groups or tribes—take the Taliban in Afghanistan for example, or what we've dealt with in the past with deep factions of ISIS or Al-Qaeda.

These networks aren't just criminal enterprises—they're woven into the fabric of daily life. For all its oil wealth, Venezuela's functional economy for ordinary people has long been the drug trade. The profits from oil have propped up those operations, not the Venezuelan people. And when the only reliable path to survival is joining a gang or entering a criminal pipeline, the cycle becomes self-perpetuating.

Will dismantling these networks end the drug war? Of course not. Cartels are adaptable. They'll shift operations to places where U.S. influence is weaker, and they have the money, infrastructure, and ruthlessness to do it. That's the reality.

But there's a deeper question we rarely grapple with: what replaces that economy? How do you build a system where people don't have to rely on crime to feed their families? Too often, that's where our interventions fall short. We focus on removing the bad actors but not on creating sustainable alternatives that change where the money flows and who benefits from it.

Think of it the way we would if a major industry in the United States suddenly disappeared. Something has to take its place. And when that industry collapses, the people who depended on it are forced to adapt. They have to find a new path, learn new skills, and adjust to an entirely different economic reality.

If Venezuela is going to rebuild, it needs more than security operations. It needs an economic foundation that gives people a reason to choose something other than the lifeline provided by the cartels—a future where legitimate work and legitimate opportunity is not only possible but preferable.  That's the part we have to get right, or everything else collapses back into the same old patterns.

If real opportunity is returned to the people of Venezuela—opportunity they can see, touch, and trust—then the cartels and other factions lose their grip. They can no longer offer what legitimate society fails to provide. When people have a future they can build, the power of those who prey on desperation begins to fade.

Fail to do this, and all we've done is to push the problem a little further down the road.

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© 2026 Jim Bauer