They taught me to be composed. To smile gracefully, even when I was screaming inside.
To stay quiet. To not be too much: too loud, too ambitious, too free.
They taught me not to bite.
When I rebelled, they told me “don’t overdo it.”
When I shined too bright, someone dimmed the lights.
When I ran, they reminded me where the leash was.
So I mastered the art of moderation. Of polite presence.
I learned to stay in a gilded cage while the world outside roared.
They told me it was safer there. More proper. More acceptable. More feminine.
But then something shifted.
It wasn’t one moment. It was a build-up.
One look too many that tried to shrink me.
A whispered “you’re not good enough.”
A door slammed in my face while I was knocking with my heart in my hand.
One day, I stopped asking for permission.
I stopped lowering my voice.
I stopped pretending not to see my wings.
Because yes—I had wings. I always did.
They just forgot to tell me.
And while they were teaching me not to bite, they never mentioned the sky.
That day I opened my shoulders, lifted my chest, and threw it all in the air: expectations, limits, fears dressed up as common sense.
And I flew.
Flying isn’t elegant. It’s messy. It’s wild. It’s instinct.
It’s wind in your face and thunder in your chest.
It’s making space where they said there was none.
It’s choosing you, every damn time—even when you tremble, even when they judge, even when they say, “this is not how it’s done.”
I flew with scraped knees. With smudged mascara. With a heart in pieces and dreams stitched back together.
But I flew.
And from up there—from where they never let me look—the world finally made sense.
Not the version they wanted.
Mine.
This isn’t a story of revenge. It’s a story of power. Of awakening.
Of a bite never taken… that turned into wings.
And now? Now I’m never landing.
Silvia 💕
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