Freedom by Morgan Burke

Free.

Can you remember, can you go back in your mind to a time when you were truly free? Unafraid, curious, soaking in every fiber of the world around you to better understand, to learn how to move and breathe within it?

I can if I try hard enough. If I stand at the edge of our backyard that leads into the woods, with its heady green scent and gentle breeze. I can think back to those early days when the world was mine and I was hers. I remember the desire, that would slowly grow from my toes all the way up to my braided pigtails, that prompted my arms and legs to move towards the tree with the lowest limbs and begin to climb. I wanted to see what the world looked like from up there. I wanted to find “my” spot, a place where I could sit and think and be.

Remember how Rory in Gilmore Girls had “her” tree, the one that she always claimed and sat against while she studied? I never had one that I claimed as my own, but I always wanted one. I wanted a secret place, all my own, where I could crawl up and hide; a place where I could think, or talk to myself, to just have space for my whole self to breathe. Making up stories came as freely as my next breath, and I would get lost in them without even realizing it. “Morgan, Morgan!” my mom would call me back into reality. I think I preferred my imaginary worlds to the present reality if I would have been honest with myself in those days.

Somewhere, somehow, I began to believe the things that the adults around me communicated, both with their words and with their lives. Follow the rules, walk in line with your peers, sit quietly and listen. Passivity is good. Quiet is good. Being calm and submissive is all we expect and ask of you.

In the middle of this, I began to slowly lose my grip with the girl who climbed trees and breathed out stories.

Somewhere, I believed that the less I showed up and let my true self show, the more I would be approved of and accepted. I knew, deep down, that my true self was still good, but I began to believe that the self that copied others and adapted to what was expected of me was better. Smile, be nice to everyone, don’t let your inner emotions show, especially if those emotions would make someone feel uncomfortable. The adaptation to being the “good girl” who is just so agreeable, laid back, and kind had elements of me lingering within, but it wasn’t the real me. I walked in that new skin, the flawless, immovable, “everybody’s girl” skin so long that I came to know her as me.

Climb a tree? Ridiculous. You will look silly, and you might get hurt. Someone might see you.
Cry in front of someone? Resist authority? Question your parents or teachers? Rubbish. You will do well to stay within your safe guidelines of kind, quiet, and agreeable.

There wasn’t much time for stories anymore. There was always studying to complete, extracurriculars to excel at, and social obligations to fulfill. There was hair to straighten, makeup to cover my face with, and clothes to find that looked “cool” and “like everyone else.” My shoulders cinch up with the pressures of conformity and feel tired with the constant weight of meeting everyone’s expectations. But I don’t realize it. I see it as my duty, my life’s work. I don’t notice my knotted shoulders because I was doing “good” after all, I was checking all the boxes.

God, to me, was someone who loved me more because my boxes had neat little checkmarks in them. I could smile sweetly, say a prayer, and know that he loved me as the girl who won “Most Friendly” at school for three years in a row.

But now, as an adult, by His grace alone, I know better. He is the God who says "forget the boxes,” and looks back on the girl with the stiff shoulders and perfect hair and says, "I loved her even then."

Slowly, in his own gentle way, in my most quiet moments, standing at the edge of the woods, he stands before me. He signals for me to come, to walk with him. He holds out his hand, with his palm outstretched and his fingers slightly bent, an invitation. Then, he leads me to the tree with the lowest branch and watches as I swing a leg over it and begin to climb.

Morgan Burke is a mom, former special education teacher, and a published children's book author. She enjoys writing about adoption and the hard stuff of motherhood as a way of processing the fast-moving world around her. Being in nature, baking, and spending time with her family are the things that bring her joy. She lives in Huntsville, Alabama with her husband and two toddler boys. Learn more about Morgan at www.morganburkewrites.com.