Where Freedom Lives

I was only trying to sit still—just a few quiet minutes of meditation, maybe catch a breath before the to-do list came barging back in. But instead of peace, I got a full-blown inner flash mob: the Chaperone showed up, clipboard in hand, barking orders. The Rebel stomped in next, all attitude and eye-rolls. And then came the strangest revelation of all: I am not either of them. I’m not the one with the rules, and I’m not the one breaking them. I’m the one watching the whole scene unfold. The one sitting in the space between. And suddenly, that space—the one I usually rush to fill—became the most important place I could possibly be.

I know the Chaperone intimately. She’s a mashup of the stereotypical Catholic school nun—tight-lipped, ruler-wielding, impossible to please—and my workaholic father, who believed that play was for the lazy and vacation was for the weak. Joy, unless it had a measurable ROI, was suspect. The Chaperone inherited their legacy and took it further. She doesn’t just set high standards—she weaponizes them. She whispers that rest is failure, fun is foolish, and that every gold star must be earned with blood, sweat, and overthinking. She is the no-nonsense taskmaster who insists she’s just trying to help, all while suffocating my spirit one “should” at a time.

Enter the Rebel. The Skeptic. The hell-no voice. She doesn’t carry a clipboard—she carries a megaphone and a lighter. If the Chaperone says, “You should,” the Rebel retorts, “You can’t make me.” A therapist once told me that many people are stuck in their terrible twos—the emotional version—forever. Living life in a full-body tantrum of “I don’t want to and you can’t make me!” with angry tears and pouty lips for dramatic flair. That pretty much nails the Rebel’s vibe. Big feelings, big drama. But Margaret (same wise therapist) also gave me a lifeline when she said, “There is no black and white. There are always at least five options.” That one line cracked open my rigid thinking. And although the Rebel doesn’t always know what those five options are, she sure as hell knows she won’t be choosing Option A: Obey without question.

The magic happened the moment I realized that I am neither one. I am not the voice of the Chaperone, listing demands in the name of safety. I am not the Rebel either, hellbent on autonomy at any cost. I am the space between them. The awareness that watches them both. The still point in the storm. That sliver of silence between “I should” and “You can’t make me” is not just a pause—it’s presence. It’s where freedom lives. When I identify with one voice or the other, I’m locked into their tug-of-war. But when I sit in the middle, unattached, I start to breathe. I start to see clearly.

I used to hate the Judge because I thought she was trying to ruin me—force me into a tight little box labeled Acceptable Human. She was trying to make me conform, crush my creativity, completely fuck up my fun. NO FUN HERE! she’d shout, stomping out joy like it was a fire hazard. WTF are you thinking? Harsh, to say the least. She was the inner critic incarnate, the original architect of my internal surveillance system—so old, so embedded, it became practically invisible. Always on, always scanning, always reporting. She didn’t just whisper shame; she manufactured urgency. The breathless pace, the “go faster, do more, never stop moving” soundtrack? That’s her too. Reinforced by the outside world every second of every day. The speed of it all makes it nearly impossible to notice anything subtler—especially the quiet, sacred in-between space.

And the Rebel? Oh, please. Mostly imaginary. A Thelma-and-Louise wannabe in my head, not real life. Loud mouth, big talk, no follow-through. She’d yell, I don’t care what people think! before stomping off—exit stage left. The truth? I cared deeply. I cared so much about what people thought that the Rebel had to exist just to give me the illusion of independence. She was the inner escape hatch. A fantasy freedom fighter, shouting from the fire escape of my subconscious, while I stayed safely seated in my perfectly acceptable cubicle. But still—she had a role. She reminded me that there was an escape. That maybe, just maybe, there was a way to live without being constantly policed by my inner nun with a ruler.

And here’s where it gets even more interesting. In my brief-but-beautiful brush with Native American teachings, I learned something from Sun Bear that flipped my understanding of consciousness. He described the mind not as a single narrator, but as a council—a circle of voices, each with its own viewpoint. Picture a long table in a dimly lit boardroom, chairs filled with curious characters: the Chaperone in her pressed suit, the Rebel with her combat boots on the table, and a few others I haven’t fully identified yet (the Strategist? the Dreamer? the Skeptic in round glasses?). They all get to speak, but none of them are me. I am the one at the head of the table—the one listening. That image changed everything. I stopped trying to shut anyone up. I just pulled up a chair and said, “Thanks for sharing. I’ll take it from here.”

So what happens when I stop identifying with either of them? I begin to breathe. I notice the quiet underneath the commotion—the soft hum of something wiser. The field between their ropes becomes a sanctuary, not a battleground. And in that space, I find something else entirely. A deeper voice. A truer self. Not the one who reacts, defends, performs, or rebels—but the one who simply knows. She doesn’t carry a clipboard or a lighter. She doesn’t even talk loud. She just shows up. She watches. She listens. She waits. And when she speaks, the whole damn room goes quiet—not because she demands it, but because her presence alone is enough to shift the air.

The space between isn’t empty—it’s sacred. It’s the breath before the story, the beat before the choice. It’s where clarity gathers and wisdom seeps in. And no, the voices haven’t gone anywhere. The Chaperone still shows up with her rules. The Rebel still wants to light things on fire. But now, I greet them like old coworkers in a shared breakroom. I nod. I listen. I take what’s useful. But I don’t hand them the keys. I’m the one at the head of the council table now—centered, curious, and completely uninterested in running on autopilot.

​So here’s the deal: I am not my rules, and I am not my rebellion. I am the one who gets to decide. And that space--where freedom lives—isn’t a timeout or a loophole. It’s the whole damn point. It’s where life actually happens. It’s where I reclaim my voice, not as a reaction, but as an original. So next time one of those voices tries to hijack the show, I’ll do what any good field guide traveler would: step back, breathe, and remember I’ve got options. At least five. Maybe more.

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