Monologue #6: The Song of My Ribcage

I laughed. 

And in that laughter—deep, sudden, from the belly of me—I found freedom. Not the kind we fight for. The kind that was always there, waiting behind the illusion I had clung to like armor.

It hit me not with a crash, but with a giggle:
I was never in control.
And what a ridiculous, beautiful, tragic little story I had told myself for so long—that control was safety. That control meant I was doing something right.

But no.
Control was the cage.
And the key was my own surrender.

When I let it go—the anger, the tightness, the need to manage everyone’s everything—what filled the silence wasn’t fear.
It was laughter.
It was breath.
It was... me.

All of me.

The very core. Every shade. Every mood. Every sacred contradiction. Finally free to move, to speak, to play without apology.

I don’t yet know what my hands will create with this freedom. It’s too new, too pure. But I know they will create. Because creation is what happens when we’re no longer holding the world up with our teeth.

I’ve lived enough to appreciate this kind of knowing. I’ve suffered enough to recognize it when it arrives:
the peaceful, euphoric surrender into divine order.

It is not passivity.
It is not giving up.

It is trust.

That the road will turn where it must.
That I will know what to do when it does.
That I am not alone.
And I never was.

It is no longer I and God—like co-pilots.
It is God... and I.
The divine leads. I follow, free.

And when I wake in the morning, no longer carrying the weight of everyone’s happiness, no longer mistaking control for love, there is light in my chest.

And in that light, a song.

It’s not sacred hymn or polished prayer.
It’s messy, playful, and probably off-key.
Something like:
“These are a few of my favorite things...”

And I sing it.
Because no one’s watching.
And even if they were, it wouldn’t matter.

My ribcage is a cathedral.
My breath is the offering.
And laughter is the hymn that set me free.

And I’m not crying anymore.

I used to cry easily—hurt too easily.
Each tear a protest against a world I couldn’t shape.
Each ache tied to the belief that I could—or should—control the people, the moments, the outcomes.

But now, with all that released, the tears have shifted.

They will still come, I know.
But not from soul-deep suffering, not from the wounds I carved by holding too tightly.
Let the tears come now when I see beauty.
When I am moved.
When life is so achingly pure, it spills over.

For now, there is a smile.
A real one.
Not a mask.
But a smile rooted in the quiet knowing:

It is what it is.
And that is enough.

No, it won’t be perfect.
But I will take it moment to moment.
And may I keep laughing—every day—like freedom itself is echoing back through my ribs.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai