The Caged Bird: a personal essay on sacrifice, motherhood, and reclaiming freedom

Golden empty birdcage

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been a storyteller. I created characters based on the people I loved—sometimes to make sense of them, sometimes just to feel closer. Storytelling made me feel connected. It gave me a place to belong.

But even then, I felt like an outsider. I knew I was different. So I learned to blend in, to keep quiet, to be safe. Deep down, I always had a wild spirit. But growing up as a girl, especially in my family, being spirited wasn’t safe. The women I came from had their light dimmed, their spirits smothered, and sometimes even beaten out of them.

I learned that being a woman could be dangerous. I became wary of the men in my life—uncles, cousins, even my own father. I was a scared little girl who watched too much and knew too much. And I grew into a woman afraid of the power men held, the way they dominated, the way they harmed. I promised myself I’d never be a slave to that. So I built a fortress around my heart. I made myself small. I disappeared into the background.

I became the good girl. The rule follower. The one who didn’t cause trouble. I believed it was my job to save the family. I would go to college. I would get a good job. I gave up dreams of singing, acting, performing—because being an artist felt like a path to poverty, and I couldn’t risk wasting my mother’s sacrifice. Her suffering had to mean something.

I kept giving up parts of myself. I moved back home when I wanted to live in Boston. I got a job. Bought a house for my family. Chose a stable career with the state. I went to grad school and became a social worker, because helping others came naturally. I was always the caregiver. But I also stopped living for myself.

I didn’t date. I didn’t go out. I hid behind my weight and my shame. It felt safer to be invisible.

Later, I went to law school—not because I wanted to be a lawyer, but because I needed a challenge. I needed something to focus on. I wanted my mother to be proud. But even then, I didn’t feel like enough. Not for myself. Not for anyone. I kept asking: who could love me? Who would want me?

What I wanted—deep down—was to live for my own dreams. I wanted to be free. But duty had wrapped itself around me so tightly that I didn’t know how to break away. I don’t know when that duty first started. Maybe it was the day I brought home a perfect report card and saw the pride in my mother’s eyes.

When I turned 32, everything shifted. I had just finished my first year of law school, and I was tired of feeling ashamed of my body. So I started to take care of myself. I lost weight. I gained confidence. And with that came male attention, which made me deeply uncomfortable.

Still, I took a chance on love. I fell—fast and hard—for a man who made me believe in tenderness. It was electric. Beautiful. All-consuming. A love that felt like dynamite. It didn’t last. And when it ended, I broke. I rebuilt the walls around me higher than before.

Not long after, I made the most powerful decision of my life. I chose to become a mother. On my own. Without asking for permission. For once, I did something just for me.

Becoming a mother was the most rewarding and terrifying thing I’ve ever done. Doing it alone only made it harder. I gave every part of myself to it. In the process, I lost pieces of who I used to be. The woman who dreamed began to fade. I stopped dating. My last date was over nine years ago.

Now, as I approach 50, I feel it. The loneliness. The ache. The restless flutter in my chest. Like a bird trapped too long in a cage. I’m tired of being the responsible one. Tired of sacrificing my dreams for others. I want to dream for myself, for me and my daughter.

I want to be bold. To take risks. To breathe without fear. I want to fall in love again or at least, open the door to it. Maybe I don’t need a man to complete me. But I wouldn’t mind someone to share the silence with. A man to hold me at the end of a long day. To split a sandwich with me just because he cares. Because he wants to nourish me the way I’ve always nourished others.

I don’t need to be rescued. But some days, I want to be.

I am the caged bird. And I’m ready to fly.

Love,

Viv