Today I Choose to be Free – How to be Free

I’m fearless about others’ opinions now. That sentence would have been fiction at 30, fantasy at 40, unlikely at 50. But at 61, it’s true. Not saying I don’t care at all, but the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like me. This revelation came late, but it came with force.

I used to be tied to opinions like a marionette to strings. Every raised eyebrow could change my direction. Every disapproving look could derail my day. I spent decades shape-shifting to match whatever room I entered, whatever person I faced, whatever I thought would make me acceptable.

The strings got cut gradually, then all at once. Like those cartoon moments when the character runs off a cliff but doesn’t fall until they look down. I’d been free for a while before I noticed. Before I tested it. Before I trusted it.

This fearlessness, this freedom, is what enabled me to create Enlightenzz. My 30-year-old self never would have. She was too busy maintaining her masks, managing her image, making sure everyone approved. She would have died before admitting she reads “fairy smut” or eats cereal for dinner or doesn’t understand cryptocurrency.

The Weight of Carrying Everyone’s Opinions

You don’t realize how heavy opinions are until you put them down. I carried them in my shoulders, those perpetual knots between my shoulder blades. In my jaw, clenched so tight I cracked two molars. In my chest, that constant tightness like wearing a too-small bra made of other people’s expectations.

Every decision required a committee meeting in my head. What would people think? What would my professional contacts say? What about the neighbors? The other moms? That woman at yoga who always seems to have it together? I was exhausted before I even got out of bed, pre-depleted from imaginary conversations with imaginary critics.

The mental energy spent managing opinions was staggering. Calculating responses. Editing myself before speaking. Choosing clothes not for comfort but for acceptability. Writing emails and rewriting them to strike the perfect tone. Living life like a PR campaign for a product I wasn’t even sure I liked.

The Day the Strings Started Snapping

Freedom didn’t come through therapy or self-help books, though I tried both. It came through exhaustion and proximity to mortality. When Curtis almost died, when Dad passed, when friends started getting diagnoses with timelines attached, something shifted. The toilet paper roll was spinning faster, and I was spending my squares worrying about theoretical judgment from people who were probably too worried about their own lives to care about mine.

The first string that snapped was professional. After decades of being the responsible one, the appropriate one, I wrote a blog post about menopause. Used the word “vagina.” Talked about hot flashes in business meetings. Hit publish expecting professional suicide.

Nothing happened. The world didn’t end. Clients didn’t flee. If anything, people seemed relieved someone was finally telling the truth.

Testing the Boundaries of Freedom

Once that first string snapped, I got curious. What else could I do if opinions didn’t matter? Wear the comfortable shoes instead of the stylish ones? Say no to volunteer positions that sounded good but felt heavy? Stop dyeing my hair? Start painting even though my art looked like enthusiastic accidents?

Each small act of freedom strengthened the muscle. Posting a photo without filters. Writing about my marriage struggles. Admitting I don’t have a five-year plan. Sharing that I sometimes hide in the bathroom to eat chocolate. Every truth told without apology cut another string.

My body started changing. Those shoulder knots loosened. The jaw unclenched. The chest expanded. It was like I’d been holding my breath for 60 years and finally exhaled. Freedom felt like oxygen after decades of shallow breathing.

The Surprising Discovery About Others’ Opinions

Here’s what nobody tells you about freedom from opinions: most people aren’t thinking about you at all. They’re too busy worrying about their own toilet paper rolls spinning, their own masks slipping, their own chocolate hidden in bathroom drawers. The judgment I feared was mostly projection, my own critical voice dressed up as other people.

The people who did judge? They revealed themselves as tourists in my life, not residents. Their opinions mattered only as much as a stranger’s comment about my coffee choice. Interesting data point, but not life-directing information.

The real friends, the ones who matter? They celebrated my freedom. They’d been waiting for me to drop the performance. Some even said my courage to be real gave them permission to drop their own masks. My freedom became contagious.

Freedom to Fail Spectacularly

Being free from opinions means I can fail publicly now. Post the painting that looks like a preschool accident. Write the blog post that meanders without point. Try the new thing and be terrible at it. Share the photo where I look my age. Admit when I’m wrong without making it mean I’m worthless.

This freedom to fail has become freedom to experiment. Dutch Pour paintings that sometimes look like vomit? Post them anyway. Blog posts that don’t quite land? Leave them up as evidence of humanity. New recipe that tastes like sadness? Laugh about it publicly.

At 30, failure felt like death. At 61, failure feels like data. Interesting information about what doesn’t work, making space for what might.

The Unexpected Grief of Freedom

There’s grief in freedom. Mourning for all the years spent in voluntary prison. All the opportunities missed while managing opinions. All the energy wasted on theoretical judgment. All the authentic connections avoided while maintaining appropriate distance.

Sometimes I think about 30-year-old me, so concerned with being acceptable. I want to tell her that the people whose opinions she’s killing herself to manage won’t even be in her life at 61. That the ones who matter will love her mess and all. That freedom tastes better than approval ever did.

But she wouldn’t have believed me. Some freedoms have to be earned through exhaustion.

What Freedom Actually Looks Like

Freedom at 61 looks like posting without editing. Speaking without rehearsing. Dressing for comfort. Saying no without excuse. Saying yes without permission. Creating without guarantee. Sharing without apology.

It looks like Tuesday afternoon truth instead of Sunday morning presentation. Like admitting I don’t understand things everyone else seems to get. Like being the oldest person in the art class and the most enthusiastic. Like writing about hot flashes and death and marriage and money without worrying who might be uncomfortable.

Freedom is my shoulders at normal height. My jaw relaxed. My breath deep. My truth told. My mess acknowledged. My humanity unedited.

The Daily Practice of Staying Free

Old habits die hard. Sometimes I catch myself editing, managing, performing. The difference now is I catch it. Feel my shoulders creeping up and consciously lower them. Notice when I’m crafting instead of communicating. Recognize when I’m seeking approval instead of expression.

The practice is simple: Notice when I’m managing opinions. Ask whose voice is in my head. Remember that their opinion is about them, not me. Choose truth over performance. Repeat as necessary, which is often.

Some days freedom feels natural, like I was born for it. Other days I have to consciously cut the strings again, remind myself that others’ opinions are not my oxygen.

The Revolution of Not Caring

This freedom from opinions isn’t indifference. I still care about kindness, connection, contribution. But I no longer care about being perfect, appropriate, or universally liked. The difference is everything.

Creating Enlightenzz from this place of freedom means every post is honest. Every share is real. Every vulnerability is chosen, not extracted. I write what’s true, not what’s safe. Share what’s helpful, not what’s impressive.

Today I choose to be free. Free from the exhausting performance of acceptability. Free from the prison of theoretical judgment. Free from the weight of managing everyone’s possible opinions about my choices.

At 61, with the toilet paper roll spinning faster, freedom isn’t just nice to have. It’s essential. Every square spent worrying about opinions is a square not spent creating, connecting, contributing. And I don’t have squares to waste.

The world won’t end if someone doesn’t like me. But my world might end if I spend whatever time remains trying to make sure everyone does.

So I choose freedom. Even when my old patterns whisper. Even when the familiar strings try to reattach. Even when being appropriate would be easier than being authentic.

Because freedom at 61 tastes like oxygen after a lifetime of holding my breath.

And I’m never going back to shallow breathing.