Freedom

Freedom is not a destination

but a door that opens inward,

not a place you arrive at

but a choice you make each morning

when the sun spills through your window

and you decide who you will be today.

It lives in the space between

what the world expects

and what your heart whispers,

in the moment you stop asking permission

to take up space,

to speak your truth,

to love who you love.

Freedom is the wild bird

that builds its nest in your chest,

sometimes quiet, sometimes singing,

but never caged by others' definitions

of what you should want,

how you should live,

who you should become.

It's in the breath you take

before saying "no" to what diminishes you,

in the step you take toward

what makes you feel most alive,

in the words you finally speak

after years of swallowing them whole.

Freedom is messy and uncertain,

not the clean lines of slogans

but the jagged edges of choice,

the weight of responsibility

for your own becoming,

the terrifying, exhilarating truth

that you are the author

of your own story.

Sometimes it's as grand as mountains

stretching endless toward the sky,

sometimes as simple as

choosing your own bedtime,

wearing what makes you happy,

taking the long way home

just because you can.

Freedom is learning that the cage

was never locked,

that the key was always

in your pocket,

that the only thing standing

between you and the open door

was the fear of what lay beyond it.

But once you step through—

once you taste that first breath

of unchained air,

once you feel your own wings

remember how to carry you—

you understand that freedom

was never about having no boundaries

but about choosing your own.