Not every cage is built by violence.
Some are born out of love — for survival.
From habits meant to protect you.
From fears you inherited without wanting them.
From the voices that taught you to shrink:
“Be good.”
“Don’t disturb.”
“Don’t want too much.”
“Be grateful for what you have.”
From work that was supposed to keep you safe,
but instead became the slow erosion of who you are.
This is how a prison is built —
brick by brick —
until it looks exactly like a life.
And when you finally look closely,
you see each bar carries your name:
habit, duty, silence, endurance, loyalty.
But the most painful truth is this:
You’re the one holding the key.
Not the world.
Not the past.
Not circumstance.
Not fear.
You.
That’s why it hurts.
Because if the key is in your hands,
there is no one left to blame for the trembling.
You know you’re in a cage.
You feel it in every morning sigh,
every tight muscle in your neck,
every day that your job keeps you alive
while slowly killing your fire.
No one has to explain it to you.
You already know.
And you also know the exit won’t be pretty.
Not graceful.
Not calm.
Exits from cages never are.
But it will be true.
And truth — raw, unclothed, merciless —
always arrives to save, not to destroy.
You may fear the world outside.
Of course you do.
The unknown smells like freedom and loss at the same time.
But ask yourself:
Were you really created to spend a lifetime in a place that only pretends to be safety?
The world outside doesn’t ask for certainty.
It doesn’t ask for a perfect plan.
It doesn’t need your confidence.
It only waits for you to move.
A millimeter.
A breath.
A whisper of intention.
Your soul — tattered, exhausted, still loyal —
is already standing at the door.
And it says:
“Go.
Before you forget that you know how to leave.
Before you forget that you know how to walk.”
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