Let Freedom Ring

My mom used to tell the story of how, as a toddler determined to exert her independence when offered help, I’d shriek, “No! I do it myselz!” Although my manners have improved somewhat, the inclination to go it alone has stayed with me for most of my life.

At 7, before my tonsillectomy, I told the hospital staff I could walk to the gurney. No need to be carried like a child. At 9, I got my first job, throwing the weekly newspaper after school. Having learned to drive in the mountains at 14, I couldn’t wait to get my license—and eventually a car of my own.

A month after I turned 18, I drove with my mom and younger sister to Iowa for the first time, eager to start college and my new life of independence. After unloading the car and meeting my roommate, we headed to Walmart for a fan and a hotpot, then grabbed a quick dinner. Back outside my dorm, we hugged goodbye amid tears and promises to call.

My only contact with home would be a collect call on Sundays from the phone booth on the dorm floor and the occasional letter or care package. No daily texts or “you got this” memes. No Facetime or phone calls whenever I needed to hear her voice.

I kept waving until their car disappeared. For the first time, I felt completely alone. I finally had the freedom I’d longed for—and it was terrifying. I’d been so determined to fly, I never stopped to think what it would mean to leave behind the person I loved most.

***

Up to that point, I’d worn my self-reliance like other kids displayed their scout patches—as proof of worth. As often happens, it wasn’t until decades later that I understood how my mom’s subtle influence allowed my independence to flourish.

Sometimes she had to step in when safety was a concern. But often she’d gently guide me while letting me believe the decision was mine.

Like when I decided to run away at 4.

“Would you like help packing?” she asked.

I hadn’t thought about that. “Yes, please,” I said, following her to the bedroom.

She opened the tiny suitcase on the bed. “Let’s see… you’ll probably need a couple of changes of clothes.” I nodded, unable to find my voice.

“Pick out two of your favorites,” she said. She did the same with my pajamas, toothbrush, underwear, socks.

When everything was ready, she carried the suitcase to the door. “It’ll be cold out there,” she cautioned, helping me into my coat, hat and mittens.

Bundled up like a burrito, I picked up the case and gave her one last look.

“Can I have a hug?” she asked. I nodded, eyes filling as she pulled me in.

“I love you,” she called as I started down the walk in the dark.

Bursting into tears, I ran back, wailing, “I don’t want to go.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “Come on. I’ll help you unpack.”

My mom loved telling this story, so I know it by heart. Looking back, it’s clear how her quiet permission made my independence feel safe.

But not every attempt at self-sufficiency ended so tenderly. Between amusement and admiration lay exasperation when my efforts backfired spectacularly.

At 7, after tracking mud all over the coffee-colored coir doormat, I decided to clean it before my parents discovered the mess. I sloshed soapy water across it and scrubbed until the tracks disappeared—unaware that the muddy suds were seeping into the pristine carpet underneath.

My dad didn’t care about good intentions. I still got the belting I’d hoped to avoid. But I persisted. The rewards far outweighed the occasional drawback.

Independence for me wasn’t just about pride. It became my bedrock during an adolescence marked by unpredictability and turmoil that taught me early not to count on anything lasting. Depending on others felt tenuous, like trying to stand on an inflatable raft. And it meant risking disappointment or, worse, exposing myself as needy.

Maybe I came wired that way. Or it could have stemmed from being the middle of three sisters born within two years. A sensitive kid learns quickly that the way to be loved by overburdened parents is to need as little as possible.

After Mom remarried and began the endless cycle of silence and violence, apology and calm, the weight of her sadness seemed far greater than any petty worries I might have. She needed me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she used to say. That’s when I learned that being self-reliant wasn’t enough. I had to help her too.

My desire for freedom ran headlong into my need to be her anchor—and that collision shaped every love that followed.

***

For most of my life, I believed that helping others was the highest form of love. And that’s what I led with in many romantic relationships. From loading moving vans to unpacking emotions, riding mowers to writing letters—I was there in every way I thought was helpful. I went all in, until I burned myself out.

Feeling needed was how I knew I mattered. Not everyone I was with wanted that. Some loved me for who I was, without me having to do anything. But I didn’t understand: how could they love someone who was a stranger to me—the self I hadn’t allowed to simply be?

On the flip side, being a caretaker attracted people who were happy to have me carry as much of the emotional, financial and domestic burden as possible. But it was never enough. I felt defective for not being able to keep it up. Instead of a partnership of equals, the relationship became a proving ground.

And I was the one who set that up—or at least left myself open to it—because I so often equated love with labor. If I wasn’t doing something to earn my place, I worried I’d lose it.

And when you give in order to feel worthy—when love becomes a role rather than a relationship—you stop being a partner and start being a provider, a therapist, a rescuer, a parent. You lose your footing and, worse, your sense of self.

That’s not connection. It’s a transaction. Like saying yes when you mean no. Like giving more than you have just to be told you matter. It leaves you feeling cheated, resentful and hollow. Not exactly fertile ground for intimacy.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but in trying so hard to be what I thought others wanted or needed, I kept betraying the very thing I’d always fought to protect: my independence.

Helping made me feel close—but it also cost me myself. Now I know: no amount of belonging is worth that trade.

***

My closest friendships, including some with exes, have always felt different. Maybe because there was never an unspoken bargain about whose needs mattered more, or a hidden fear that love had to be earned. In those connections, love flows without conditions or scorekeeping. Even so, I’m still learning to ask for help.

It’s taken me a lifetime to see that independence and attachment aren’t mutually exclusive. I’ve learned I can care for someone and still hold onto myself—that love isn’t a transaction or a performance, nor does it require sacrifice to prove my worth.

Real love doesn’t ask us to disappear. It asks us to stay exactly as we are: whole, unfinished, enough. And there, at last, lies freedom.