Free

I’ve always believed I was a free woman.

I have the opportunity to work, to vote, to talk, to travel, to dress as I want, to be independent and I’m aware this is a piece of great luck, especially if I think of all the women who still do not have those rights.

But being free has another deeper meaning as well, which I realized over time, with mistakes and with the awareness of the value of things.

It made me think a lot that I was formally free and at the same time intimately a prisoner.

A slave to the fear of judgment: from family, friends, and even people in general.

Prisoner of cultural heritage and prejudices.

Chained to the idea of having to seek the approval of the others to be enough.

Without this kind of independence, was I really free?

I think so, if I said the opposite I could offend anyone who doesn’t enjoy this privilege, but precisely because I’m free, I’ve decided I want to feel that way to the end.

So I started choosing what made me feel good and slowly all the harmful ties melted, sometimes without too much pain, other times shedding the infamous bitter tears.

Well, yes, being free also means being alone.

But mostly free, that’s what I really am.