Freedom

October 18, 2020

There has always been a piece of me that screams to be free.

I don’t know why, or where that desire is rooted, but from the time I was a small child, I have felt this ache.

My birth mother was bipolar, not extreme, but enough that I never knew if I was going to be met with happiness, sadness, anger, or chaos. And whatever it was, it was often intense. I won’t go too deeply into that, but I never felt particularly free to be myself in those conditions.

As a child, I used to fantasize that family members who lived far away were secretly watching. That they knew my situation. That one day, they would come rescue me.

As I got older, that scream for freedom found its way into my behavior. Eventually, things came to a head, and I was removed from the situation with my mother.

I ended up with a wonderful family and a mother who did her best to nurture me with guidance and love. I grew to respect and love them as perfect people. As perfect as people can be that is.

And yet, the ache was there again.

I wanted to be deserving of them. I wanted to be good enough for this family that had given me safety and love. But I was afraid that my desire to please them would somehow cost me my true self.

So away I went.

On my own. Alone.

But never truly alone.

Along the way, I filled the empty spaces…first with a boyfriend, then with a close friendship that became entirely codependent. After years of that, I jumped straight into a long-term relationship, became pregnant, and built a family of my own.

Still, that piece of me that longed for freedom kept stirring.

Still screaming.

After the birth of my second child, I felt called to go to massage therapy school and become a massage therapist.

During my time there, I felt something I had forgotten in the years before:

The stirring of my freedom cry.

A taste of my true self.

An experience I had been deeply longing for, for as long as I could remember.

I made connections with people not based on my desire to be liked, but rooted in my true self. My vulnerability, my strength, my honesty.

In the years since graduating massage school, I have had ups and downs on this journey to freedom of self.

April 23, 2026

I found this document titled Freedom five and a half years after its original, unfinished creation.

A lot can change in five years.

A lot of growth. A lot of pain. A lot of becoming.

And yet, that drive, that yearning, that stirring of desire for freedom still lingers.

I found a part of myself through massage.

I met a version of me that was free.

Two years later, in October of 2022, I expanded my massage practice. I now have other massage therapists working in my clinic, front desk staff, and even a sensory deprivation float tank.

I’ve met people who have changed me.

I attended a retreat last year that cracked open old wounds and gave me space to process and release pain I had been carrying for years.

When I first started practicing massage, I knew it was what I was meant to do.

But like many things in life, complacency can settle in.

The sessions I provide can sometimes feel routine. Mundane. The spark fades.

And yet, there are sessions where I walk into the room with a full cup and meet my client in complete surrender to the moment.

That freedom rises in my chest.

I hold space as if I was created just for that moment.

I meet the client and their body exactly where they are and guide them toward peace, freedom.

It is beautiful.

I crave more of that.

More moments where fear of judgment does not prevent me from cracking open.

I am deeply grateful for my own little family.

My daughter experiences emotion with the same depth that I do. I learn so much from her dragon spirit.

My son carries peace into every room he enters, unless he is trying to win a soccer game.

Chaos and confidence are my children.

My husband is a good man. He loves me. He supports me in all I do.

And still, I sometimes find myself longing for space.

For freedom from the weight of family.

A blessing more than a burden. I know that.

But sometimes the weight of even beautiful things feels crushing.

Finding this document has made me search my heart for ways to pursue the freedom I still yearn for.

How do I balance doing what is needed to serve(my family, my community, my faith)with doing what I must to feel fully alive?

Because I have found that I serve best from that place.

At this age, in my mid-thirties, I know the confinement I feel is often of my own design.

The restraints I wear are chosen.

And likely, they are not even locked.

Maybe this is something we all feel.

Maybe freedom was never about escape.

Maybe it was always about becoming.

-Helen of Joy