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Release the Shackles

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no key in the lock.
No dramatic clatter of chains hitting the floor.
No sudden cry of I’m free!

No, it was slower than that.
Quieter.
A kind of private unraveling.

One link at a time, I let go.

The shackles had been there for years—some forged by illness, others by guilt.

Expectations I never agreed to but carried anyway.
Roles I outgrew but stayed inside because they were familiar.
Rules I followed that no one else seemed bound by.

I wore them like bangles.

Normalized the weight.
Called it being responsible.
Called it being strong.
Called it what good women do.

I smiled through pain.
Softened my voice so others wouldn’t flinch.
Laughed off my discomfort.
Apologized for things that weren’t my fault—and for things that were, over and over, long after the point had been made.

I made myself smaller, smoother, easier.

And I was praised for it.

That’s the trap.

You wear the shackles, and the world calls you “gracious.”
You silence your truth, and they call you “humble.”
You absorb the discomfort, and they call you “strong.”

But inside?

You start to vanish.

That’s what no one tells you—how disappearing becomes a habit.
A skill, even.

You get good at editing yourself in real time.
You get good at scanning the room for how to disappear.

But then one day—
maybe after the diagnosis,
or the divorce,
or the funeral,
or the moment you look at your reflection and don’t recognize the woman staring back—
something shifts.

It might be tiny.

An instinct.
A breath.
A single thought whispered in the back of your mind:

No more.

And that’s the beginning.

You start small.

You say no without explaining it.
You rest without earning it.
You tell the truth even when your voice shakes.
You let someone else sit with disappointment without rushing to rescue them.

You do the radical thing of putting yourself in the center of your own life.

And slowly, one link at a time, the shackles begin to fall away.

You stop trying to be easy.
You stop over-accommodating.
You stop deferring to everyone else’s comfort, convenience, and preferences.

You let go of the fear that you’ll be seen as too much.
You let go of the need to prove your worth with productivity or patience.
You let go of the idea that you have to be healed, perfect, upbeat, or uncomplaining to deserve space.

And in their place?

You claim joy.

You claim rest.
Desire.
Stillness.
Laughter that shakes your shoulders.
Mornings that belong only to you.
Clothes that feel like art instead of armor.
Words that are full and unfiltered and finally your own.

You start to build a life that fits the shape of who you are now.

That’s what releasing the shackles looks like.

Not a single moment, but a practice.
Not one loud escape, but a hundred quiet refusals to stay bound.

And eventually, without ceremony, you look down and realize:

Your wrists are bare.
Your shoulders are lighter.
Your voice is steady.

And your hands?

They’re free.

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MaryMonokySpeaks.com

Writing about identity, uncertainty, emotional endurance, and learning to live inside changed realities.

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