Giving Myself Permission to Take Up Space

How my relationship with space has evolved over the years.

I spent the first fifteen years of my life living in one of the most crowded cities on the planet.

Over seven million people live in Hong Kong, which is a tiny dot of a city on a world map. And since so many people live in such a small area, I was accustomed to not having space of my own.

I shared a room and a bunk bed with my brother. Astronomical skyscrapers surrounded me. There wasn’t enough land to accommodate the city’s population, so structures were built upwards.

I was small, I was brushing against people, I was cramped — everywhere I went. By simply existing, my space already wasn’t my own. So it was easier to adjust, to mold yourself as best as you could to fit into the throngs of people around you.

I laugh when I hear about what some people’s version of a busy city is. If you have room to move and not physically bump into someone on the street, that city is not busy, in my opinion.

I live in Canada now, and there’s nothing but land here. I remember seeing the mountains and trees, and drinking in all of that space. It stretched from corner to corner, as far as my eyes could see.

Now I know that land was forcibly taken from Canada’s Indigenous peoples. Colonizers violently stripped them of their space, their land, their families, their homes. And they’re still feeling the repercussions of that painful history. As a settler on their land, I occupy space that is rightfully theirs.

How does giving each other space (or lacking it) affect our relationships?

Why do we so desperately need our own space? Why do we crave it, like we thirst for water? And why does its ownership matter?

There is something so affirming in having space of your own. I remember walking into my bedroom when I first moved to Canada, a room that was mine and mine alone.

I couldn’t contain my excitement. At fifteen years old, for the first time in my life, I had my own room. A room I could decorate in any way that I wanted. A room that could authentically reflect who I was.

I had to physically adjust to having more space around me. I could swing my arms wider when I walked, I could have a dog that could be let out in a front yard (having a yard at all was bewildering — a concept that once seemed mythical, when I watched the American families with their front yards on TV).

I had to give myself permission to take up space.

It was like emerging from a dark cave and having your eyes adjust to sunlight. When you’ve been living small your entire life, giving yourself that grace to do more than just exist takes time.

Now that I have the precious gift of space, I’m mindful of how I occupy it. I notice when I’m intruding on the space of others. I know that space means safety, especially during a global pandemic.

I’ll be happy to give you all of the space you need. It brings me so much joy to have it myself.

More from me:

The Wisdom I Wish Others Knew: Your Job Does Not Define Your Worth