Freedom isn’t a lifestyle you perform.
It’s what’s left when you stop trying to prove you have it.
Tuesday morning, after yoga.
My body felt soft and open.
My mind — already tightening.
At 11:30, the LinkedIn post I’d scheduled popped up.
That was my cue to perform my new role:
the “free person” sharing her journey once a week on LinkedIn.
Apparently, the LinkedIn experts say I should engage, comment, connect, contribute — be visible.
So I started scrolling.
But the more I scrolled, the more I felt… irritated.
Is this the freedom I dreamed about?
To be my own boss — and somehow still end up performing for invisible audiences?
I’ve managed to recreate the same stress…
just with better yoga pants and no salary.
Of course, the pressure isn’t random.
It sneaks in quietly — that voice in my head debating again:
“Should I do this? I really love doing that… but maybe I should do something more useful — you know, something that could potentially make money.”
Money still feels like proof of worth sometimes.
That old wiring runs deep.
I was sitting at my dad’s kitchen table, white light above, ground fan humming beside me.
No boss. No deadline. No one watching.
And yet there I was, running a full performance review in my own head.
My brain, bless it, still runs in corporate mode,
always strategising, streamlining, optimising.
As if freedom itself needs a workflow and KPIs.
And under all that noise sits something quieter.
A small sadness that after ten years in the corporate world,
a part of me still believes doing what I love isn’t enough unless it also earns.
I used to travel in my twenties with almost no money,
camping under the stars, sometimes even under culverts,
working on organic farms and communes around the world.
I felt poor, but somehow didn’t care.
There was a lightness in not having much to lose.
Now I have experience, a bit of savings, perspective…
and somehow, more fear.
Then I catch myself, mid-strategy meeting with my own mind, and laugh.
Because there it is again: me, the ex-engineer, still trying to optimise freedom.
Letting go isn’t a one-time thing.
It’s more like a daily practice — hourly on bad days.
Some days it means not checking who liked my post.
Some days it means moving just for the joy of it, not because it “counts.”
Some days it’s giving myself permission to rest,
without needing to earn it.
And sometimes it’s just a small moment,
sitting at the kitchen table while Dad chats about his latest flea-market treasures.
A black fluorescent vest now hanging on the dining chair.
A ten-yuan toothbrush.
He’s proud of his bargains; I’m quietly sighing inside,
but also smiling.
Because this is him — happy, doing what he loves,
making friends at the market.
The fan hums in the background.
Nothing impressive, nothing to optimise.
Just life, quietly happening around me.
And in that stillness,
freedom feels less like something I have to prove.
and more like something that’s already here,
waiting for me to notice.
