is freedom a myth if you still crave approval?

there’s a version of freedom we like to romanticize — the kind where you’ve outgrown every performance, every apology for being too much or not enough, where you’ve stopped flinching under other people’s expectations and started living life on your own terms. it’s seductive, that version. it looks like unbothered confidence, a curated aloofness that suggests you don’t need anyone’s validation to feel whole. but the truth is harder, softer, messier. because what happens when you’ve built a life around the idea of freedom — autonomy, expression, self-trust — but still find yourself quietly unraveling at the thought of not being liked? when your stomach twists over a text left on read, or a comment misunderstood, or a parent’s voice in your head that still asks, “are you sure that’s a good idea?”

freedom, then, begins to feel more like a costume than a state of being. it becomes something you perform in the daylight, but question in the moments before you fall asleep — when the noise quiets and your inner monologue starts replaying the day in slow motion, looking for what you said that you shouldn’t have, or didn’t say but should’ve. and isn’t that the strangest paradox? to appear so self-possessed to others while secretly living in the shadow of their approval? to post things that scream “i don’t care what you think” while refreshing your phone just to see who’s watching?