I used to believe the strings around me belonged to someone else.
That something beyond my reach decided how far I could go, how high I could dream, how much of myself I was allowed to become. But the hardest strings to see were never in my hands.
They were woven from fear, doubt, old voices, and every version of myself that believed I wasn’t enough. The day I saw them for what they were, everything changed. Not because I was suddenly free.
I’m not. Not yet. Some strings are still holding on.
Some still pull when I hesitate.
Some still whisper the stories I spent years believing. But now I know they are there.
And awareness is where every freedom begins. So I lift my head.
Not because I’ve escaped, but because I finally know which direction freedom lives. The hands above me no longer define my future.
Whether they are fear, expectation, memory, or my own uncertainty, they no longer have the power to decide who I become. For the first time, I am not fighting the world.
I am becoming bigger than everything that once convinced me to stay small. And maybe that is what freedom truly is—
not the moment every string disappears,
but the moment they stop deciding where your soul can go.