I’ve always had this feeling—like I was born mid-flight. Not soaring, not crashing—just suspended. Wings half-open, heart half-healed. They say bluebirds symbolise joy, but joy feels like a heavy thing when you’ve never known it to stay.
I’m not sure when it started—maybe it was the day I realised I could never be the girl who stayed, the one who made herself small and settled for what others could give. Or maybe it was the day I finally looked around and saw what I had inherited, and that’s when it hit me: my wings were meant to be something else entirely.
Lately, I keep seeing her. This tiny bird inside me, trembling and weightless, begging to be let out of the cage I didn’t even realise I’d built from the fragments of other people’s expectations. My mother’s unspoken hopes, my father’s absence, my own fear of choosing wrong. These things became the bars that held me in place, whether I wanted to admit it or not. You see, I come from a long line of women who stayed. Not just in my family, no, but in music. In movies. Everywhere?
Women who shrunk themselves for love, who put their dreams on pause to raise others, who made homes out of heartbreak and called it survival. I was raised on their warnings, their whispered prayers, their grief disguised as advice.
And so, I became loud. Sharp. Independent to a fault. It was the only way I knew how to protect myself, to carve out a space where I could breathe without anyone else’s hand on my chest. I became the girl who would stay—but would never believe—even when something, or someone, felt good. Because believing always looked too much like surrender, and I couldn’t risk that. It felt like a kind of death.
But despite all of this, despite all the strength I believed I had built, when I fall, I fall hard. I melt into people like I’m trying to find pieces of myself in their warmth. I hand them my softness like it’s something delicate, something worth keeping, and then panic when they hold it too long. It’s a paradox I don’t know how to untangle: how do you hold onto love when it makes you feel small? How do you not, when all you’ve ever wanted is to be seen, even for a moment?
This isn’t just about a relationship. It’s about freedom, and fear, and the ache of becoming everything my mother wanted for me while wondering if I’ll end up breaking the way she did. There’s a part of me that believes I’m meant to fly—to be the bird I’ve always dreamed of, to carve my own path in the sky and leave behind the gravity that pulls me down. But there’s another part of me that wonders if I’m just waiting for the courage to fly, or if I’m scared I’ll never learn how.
So here I am, talking to the bluebird, asking her to fly away for both of us, to take the leap I can’t yet manage, until I find the strength to follow her. It’s a kind of prayer, a wish, a quiet plea for freedom. But it’s also a reminder that the door is always open, if only I have the courage to step through.
Little bird, bluebird
Lana Del Rey, “Bluebird” (2025)
Fly away, for both of us
For you have wings
And I’ve no means to fly
Little bird, bluebird
Find some strength inside my hand
Anything to let you sing, goodbye.
Feathers from My Mother: The Inheritance I Didn’t Ask For
I never asked for this inheritance. It wasn’t wrapped in a bow or handed to me in a moment of affection. It didn’t come with a gentle explanation or a soft embrace. It simply fell into my lap, a legacy I couldn’t ignore, like dust settling in the corners of a room I didn’t know how to leave. I don’t know if she meant for me to inherit it—my mother’s quiet sacrifice, her unspoken hopes, the silent pain that filled the spaces where love once thrived—but there it was, all the same. Her choices became my invisible chains, each link forged from the things she gave up for me to exist. Her dreams paused, her independence muffled by the weight of raising me, of loving someone who didn’t quite know how to love her back.
Growing up, I could always feel it. A strange tension in the air, like the breath before a storm, a subtle but constant reminder that my mother had given up pieces of herself to build a life for us, but never quite finished. I didn’t see it then, but I feel it now—the way she placed her wings on the shelf so I could soar, the way she sacrificed freedom so I could have choices she never had. It was unspoken, but I always knew.
My mother, the woman who had been everything to everyone, became nothing to herself. And somehow, I was left with the task of filling the spaces she left behind. Not with the same sacrifices, no—I couldn’t do that. But with the weight of her unfulfilled dreams, the quiet whispers of “do better” and “be more” that echoed in my heart every time I tried to stretch my wings.
It wasn’t just the things she gave up; it was the things she chose to carry. The guilt, the fear, the quiet pride. She never spoke of it, but I could see it in the way she stayed, the way she put everything on pause, the way she loved with a kind of quiet desperation that made me question if I ever truly understood what it meant to be free. She wanted me to be free. To fly higher, to soar further than she ever could. But in giving me that freedom, she left me with the impossible task of breaking free without breaking her.
What does it mean to be the product of someone else’s sacrifices? To carry their dreams in your bones without ever asking for them? I didn’t want to be this—this girl with the weight of someone else’s hopes resting on her shoulders. I didn’t want to live in the shadow of a mother’s quiet resignation, feeling like I was meant to carry the torch she had set down too early. But here I am, with the burden of her love and her regrets pressed into my skin, trying to figure out how to honour what she gave me without losing myself in the process.
I didn’t ask for this inheritance, but it’s mine, all the same. And as I stand here, unsure of where to go or how to let go of the things she left behind, I can’t help but wonder: Am I destined to repeat her mistakes, or can I learn to fly with the wings she gave me, without clipping them the way she did?
I’ll still be nice to your mom
Lana Del Rey, “Henry, Come On” (2025)
It’s not her fault you’re leavin’
Some people come and they’re gone
They just fly away.
The War Between Wanting Love and Wanting Myself
The thing is, I want both. I want to be loved so badly—like, the kind of love that makes you forget the world and just exist in someone else’s arms, their breath in sync with yours. The kind of love that feels like home, even if you don’t quite know where you are. The kind that makes you believe in the kind of softness you’ve only ever read about, or seen in the movies when no one’s watching. I crave it, god, I crave it more than I let on. But right next to it, buried in the same chest where my heart beats for them, is a whole other war. The war between wanting love and wanting myself.
I’m not made to shrink. It’s in my blood, this need to stand tall, to speak loud, to carve my own path and refuse to follow anyone’s footsteps. I’ve been taught, since I was little, that independence is freedom. That freedom is the only thing that matters. And yet, here I am, WANTING to be tangled in someone else’s arms, tangled in my own longing, wondering why it feels like both are pulling me apart. How can I love them and still love myself? How do I let them in without letting them erase everything I’ve fought to be?
For your thoughts are small
Lana Del Rey, “Bluebird” (2025)
They can’t keep you from leaving
As the wake of my past crashes in
I hear the door slam
But the windows wide open
We both shouldn’t be dealing with him.
I used to think that I could have it all. That I could be the girl who was loved and still unbreakable. But love is a wild thing, a thing that doesn’t play by rules. It makes you soft, makes you lean, makes you trust and then—when you’re not paying attention—makes you forget who you were before. I’ve learned that the hard way. I’ve lost pieces of myself in people who didn’t know how to hold me, and maybe I didn’t know how to hold myself, either. It’s messy, it’s fragile, and it feels like I’m always on the edge of giving too much or never giving enough.
But there’s a part of me—a loud part—that still refuses to back down. I’ll burn the world before I let someone dim my light AGAIN. It’s not arrogance; it’s survival. I refuse to be small. I refuse to let my essence shrink into the shape of someone else’s desire. And yet, even as I scream this from the rooftop of my own soul, there’s this quiet voice that says, “But don’t you want to be held? Don’t you want someone who sees you and still chooses to stay?”
And I do. I do want to be held. I do want to be seen. But the paradox is clear: the more I want love, the more I want myself, too. And it’s a fight I don’t know how to win. Because how do you stay whole while you’re giving yourself away? How do you give love without losing yourself in the process?
Yesterday, I heard God say, “It’s in your blood”
Lana Del Rey, “Henry, Come On” (2025)
And it struck me just like lightning
I’ve been fightin’, I’ve been strivin’
Yesterday, I heard God say, “You were born to be the one
To hold the hand of the man
Who flies too close to the sun”
So, here I am, in the middle of this war. I want both. I want to be loved, but I want to be strong, independent, unyielding. I want to be someone who stays true, even when the world tells me I should bend. Maybe that’s the real war: finding a way to keep myself whole while I’m learning how to love. Maybe that’s the thing no one tells you—that you don’t have to sacrifice your own fire for someone else’s warmth. But it’s a lesson I haven’t quite learned yet.
Authority, Rebellion, and the Cage I Refuse to Call Home
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with being told what to do. It’s not just the rules—I can follow rules, I’m not that chaotic—it’s the expectation that I’ll obey without question. That I’ll sit still. Be quiet. Make myself smaller just to keep the peace.
No thanks.
I don’t know exactly when I realised that “respect” was just code for “don’t talk back,” but I do know that the second I did, something in me lit on fire. And I haven’t stopped burning since. Not in a reckless way—but in a way that refuses to settle. In a way that asks “why” instead of blindly saying “yes.” In a way that breaks tradition like it’s bone china—loud, messy, and impossible to glue back together.
People love to tell you what’s best for you. Where you should go. Who you should be. And if you’re a girl, a good one? Even worse. Don’t wear that, don’t say that, don’t dream that big. Be soft. Be obedient. Be nice.
I wasn’t born to be nice. I was born to be real.
I’ve kept him at bay
Lana Del Rey, “Bluebird” (2025)
But the horses are coming
They’re racing their way around the bend
Your crash landings over
But the evening is humming
Don’t make me say it again
But real isn’t always polite. Real makes people uncomfortable. Real says “no” and means it. Real slams the door when it needs to, and real walks away even when it’s scared. That kind of rebellion? It doesn’t come without consequences. You get labelled difficult, dramatic, disobedient. But I’ve learned that being liked is not the same as being free. And I would rather be free. Every. Single. Time.
Still, even now, the cage is there. Sometimes it’s made of walls I can see—rules, roles, gender, culture. Other times, it’s quieter. Expectations I’ve internalised. Guilt that sits heavy in my chest. A mother’s voice reminding me to be careful. A teacher’s eyes telling me to lower mine. But the older I get, the more I realise that cage? That’s not my home. It’s not comfort. It’s not tradition. It’s a place built to contain me. And I refuse to call that kind of prison “love.”
What they don’t tell you about rebellion is how lonely it can be. How tired you get when you’re constantly pushing back.But they also don’t tell you how empowering it is to choose yourself—loudly, wildly, unapologetically. To take up space like it was made for you. To look someone in the eye and say, “I won’t shrink for you.”
Come on and giddy up
Lana Del Rey, “Henry, Come On” (2025)
Soft leather, blue jeans
Don’t you get it? That’s the thing
You can’t chase a ghost when it’s gone.
So no, I’m not interested in being palatable. I don’t want a life that fits neatly into someone else’s comfort zone. I want to spill over. I want to rage and rise and remake every rule they tried to cage me with. Authority can’t own me. Silence can’t soothe me. And this cage?
It never stood a chance.
The Kind of Love That Doesn’t Clip My Wings
I don’t want a love that tames me. I want a love that soars with me—not the kind that ties me down with velvet ropes and calls it affection. Not the kind that kisses my forehead with one hand and tightens a leash with the other. I’ve spent too long building this version of myself—this wild, untamed, stubbornly alive girl—to give it up just to be somebody’s “better half.”
I want to be whole. And I want to be loved as I am.
Is that too much to ask?
Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m done pretending it isn’t possible.
Just shoot for the sun
Til I can finally run
Find a way to flyI’ve kept him at bay
Lana Del Rey, “Bluebird” (2025)
But the horses are coming.
I’ve seen what clipped love looks like. I’ve lived it. Love that comes with curfews, compromise without return, and “you’re too much” on repeat until you start to believe it. Love that reshapes you like wet clay in someone else’s hands—softening your edges, smoothing your fire, until you barely recognise the girl in the mirror. That’s not love. That’s erasure with a smile.
I want love that’s a wind, not a cage. Love that lifts me higher, that holds me steady while I fly, not one that watches with suspicion every time I spread my wings.
I want someone who sees my independence not as a threat but as a reason to stay. Someone who doesn’t just tolerate my dreams but stands beside them, hands on their hips, proud. Someone who doesn’t flinch when I speak too loud, or run too far, or laugh at the wrong moment in a silent room.
Because love shouldn’t feel like I’m choosing between myself and someone else. It should feel like I’m choosing more of me, with someone who claps for every version I become.
And sure, maybe I’m idealistic. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies or stayed up too late writing stories where the heroine gets everything she wants and still keeps her fire. But why not? Why not believe in love that nourishes instead of consumes? Why not demand softness that doesn’t suffocate, passion that doesn’t possess, devotion that doesn’t dilute?
I mean, Henry, come on
Lana Del Rey, “Henry, Come On” (2025)
Do you think I’d really choose it?
All this off and on
Henry, come on
I mean, baby, come on
Do you think I’d really lose it on ya
If you did nothin’ wrong?
Henry, come on.
If love is a choice, then let me choose the kind that watches me run and whispers, “Go, I’ll be right here when you need to rest.” Let me choose the kind of love that helps me build the life I want—not just the one that fits into theirs. Let me choose the kind that sees my wings and doesn’t try to fold them down but helps me spread them wider.
So no, I won’t apologise for wanting love and freedom in the same breath.
Because the right kind of love? It lets you fly.
Bluebird, I Think I’m Ready Now
I used to think flying meant leaving everything behind. That freedom had to come with loneliness, that if I wanted the sky, I couldn’t ask for hands to hold me on the way up. But maybe freedom isn’t about solitude. Maybe it’s about choosing to carry yourself, even when someone else offers to carry you first.
I think I’m ready now—not because I have it all figured out, not because the past doesn’t ache anymore, but because I finally believe that I deserve more than the ache.
Just shoot for the sun
Lana Del Rey, “Bluebird” (2025)
Til I can finally run.
Bluebird, you taught me that I can still be soft and strong, still want love without losing my fire. You taught me that the cage was never mine to begin with—that I could leave any time, that the door was always open, even if I convinced myself it was locked.
You were never just a symbol. You were the hope I refused to name. The part of me I kept buried under obligation and fear and family and guilt. And now… now I see you for what you are. You’re me.
I am the bluebird.
The one who stayed too long because she didn’t want to hurt anyone. The one who clipped her own wings to keep the peace. The one who sang in whispers because she was scared of what would happen if she used her full voice.
But I think I’m done whispering. I think I’m done waiting for permission.
I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m ready. I feel it. In my bones. In my breath. In the way I no longer flinch when I look in the mirror. I’m not the girl who needs saving anymore. I’m the girl who saves herself.
I am the flight. The freedom. The goodbye and the becoming.
All these country singers
Lana Del Rey, “Henry, Come On” (2025)
And their lonely rides to Houston
Doesn’t really make for the best
You know, settle-down type.
So, bluebird, if you’re listening—thank you. For showing me the way. For reminding me that even when I couldn’t run, I could still hope. And hope? Hope is the first feather. Hope is the first wingbeat. Hope is the beginning of flight.
And me?
I think I’m ready now.
I used to think I had to earn my freedom. That I had to survive enough heartbreak, prove enough independence, walk far enough alone to finally be worthy of flight. But I see it now—the sky was never something I had to reach. It was always around me, waiting for me to look up.
All those years spent breaking my own heart to fit into someone else’s blueprint, all the rebellion that felt like punishment, all the soft goodbyes I whispered to versions of myself that were never really mine—they weren’t detours. They were part of the map. I had to lose myself to remember I was never lost.
Maybe that’s what it means to grow up. Not to harden. Not to let the world chip away at your softness. But to learn how to protect your own light without dimming it for anyone else.
And maybe love—the kind that doesn’t clip your wings—does exist. But whether or not it comes, I know this much: I will not shrink again. I will not stay in cages built by fear, guilt, or obligation. I will sing, loudly. I will soar, defiantly. I will choose myself, even when it’s hard.
Because I am the bluebird.
And this time, I’m flying on my own terms.
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