In films, freedom comes instinctively and obviously. You can spot it a mile off. After years (or 90 minutes) of struggle against obvious and extreme suffering and injustice, there’s great swelling dramatic music, arms held aloft, and immediate feelings of release and relief. The weather usually joins in too, with pouring cleansing rain, or a sunrise. Then there’s time for a few shots of the happily-ever-after, sometimes tinged with sadness at the losses accrued, then credits roll.
I’ve never experienced freedom like that. When I’ve felt certain forms of freedom, or seen it in other women, it’s come in some strange and subtle shapes. Often, for me, that moment of freedom has felt almost like giving up. When I’ve realised I can’t go on with something any more, freedom has felt like hopelessness. Some of the best decisions in my life I’ve made out of a sense of despair. When I’ve decided to stop pouring my energy into something, because I have finally despaired of seeing any benefit to it.
Sometimes freedom has really hurt. Sometimes when freedom has come it feels like a betrayal, like something that has diminished my power.
Decisions that lead to freedom can be the very hardest to make. They can feel like you’re destroying something, or hurting yourself, or someone else. These kinds of decisions, which would be so perfect in films with crashing dramatic music, have for me often been followed by crushing regrets.
Freedom can also come with smaller, incremental decisions. These have sometimes felt like finding my feet, slowly growing in confidence. Other times they have passed almost unnoticed, happening as I slowly let something go, or put my energy elsewhere.
Whatever freedom has felt like as it arrives, it’s always taken time for me to fully notice or express its full scope. It’s grown slowly, sometimes from very bitter seeds, and taken time and effort to flourish and strengthen. Maybe one day I’ll experienced the coming of freedom like they do in films, but I’ll know that it’s only the beginning of the story.