Freedom, to me, is personal. Fiercely, achingly personal.
It’s not just waving flags and lighting fireworks—it’s honoring the battles I never had to fight because someone before me did. It’s knowing that the freedom I have to speak up, show up, and stand tall was paid for in sweat, scars, and sacrifice by women and brave soldiers who never got to see the world they fought to create.
There was a time when women couldn’t vote.
Couldn’t own property.
Couldn’t open a bank account without a husband.
Couldn’t walk into a room and be heard without being dismissed.
And yet—here I am.
Because they were there.
Freedom, for me, is walking in my truth without fear. It’s owning my time, my voice, my vision. It’s saying no and not having to apologize. Saying yes and not needing permission.
Freedom is waking up and deciding how I want to spend my time, not how I have to. It’s walking into a room knowing I don’t need to shrink. I don’t need to dress down, pipe down, or back down. (And definitely not because my father or husband said so.)
It’s not owing anyone an explanation for the way I live, love, speak, write, dress—or glitter.
It’s having a voice.
It’s using it.
And sometimes, it’s choosing silence without being silenced.
It’s the power to build Voguegenics from scratch, to rewrite my life after loss, to parent how I see fit, love without shame, create without compromise, and take up space—in glitter, stilettos, or sweats.
Freedom is remembering. It’s carrying the torch that others lit. It’s never forgetting that someone fought, protested, bled, or was buried so I could live out loud today.
So yes—freedom means choice. But more than that, it means gratitude.
Because I know how many women came before me who didn’t have the choices I do now. And I’ll be damned if I waste that gift by staying small.
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