Voh 7:30 wali chai.

Please excuse the “I’m so old” energy, but I’ve officially entered the age I once dreamt of as a child. My childhood was spent in a small, not-so-small city in Kerala, where going to temples was my version of being “social.” I’d walk in thinking maybe, just maybe, my soulmate was also doing the rounds that day. But the only realization I came back with was that I wasn’t being noticed, and perhaps that was a blessing in disguise.

Because obviously I looked like this.

But I noticed who were being seen: Those almost-women, not kids, not aunties, existing somewhere in between. You get me? They fascinated me. The freedom to wear what they liked in the bindi colour, to keep their hair open, to laugh loudly, to stay up till 10 p.m. That was the kind of freedom that fascinated me when I was ages 7,8,9.

A year later, we moved to Bombay, and let’s just say, the sense of freedom broadened, and the clothes shortened.

Anyway, the point is: freedom, or rather, senses of freedom.

When you’re a “threenager” or a teenager, you grow up thinking that each milestone, 10th, 12th, college, job, moving out, will unlock the ultimate freedom. But spoiler alert, it’s a scam. The real ones know that freedom ends where responsibility, aka freedom with discipline, begins. It doesn’t vanish, it just evolves. You either become responsible for yourself or for something. But you’re always responsible. Between dreaming and doing, we realise that every “level-up” comes with a new kind of leash. For me, freedom used to mean not having to ask for permissions or money. And yes, I rave about that version of freedom, but even now, my nervous system gets jumpy when the clock hits 8 p.m. Because I remember how my mom’s silent treatment and utensil-banging music would follow if I got home at 8:23 from a birthday party and not at 8.

Now, freedom is smaller, quieter. It’s skipping a meal because I want to, not because someone said I shouldn’t. It’s drinking chai at 7:30 in the evening without hearing, “Who drinks tea now?” It’s working till 2 a.m. and sleeping till 10 because I chose a career that flips the script.

Maybe it sounds childish, even rebellious. But that’s the point, freedom is subjective. What’s silly to one person might be sacred to another. One suffers only as long as they decide to. Perspective is everything. What’s “regular” for someone might be remarkable for another. What’s normal isn’t always ordinary.

Freedom is not a location you reach; it’s a temperature you learn to live at. Sometimes it burns, sometimes it chills you, but mostly, it reminds you you’re still alive.

Life and love have both taught me that you never forget the taste of certain tears. But the best thing about rock bottom? It’s solid enough to build on. Gold can buy you a crown, but not the spine to wear it straight. Admist this war, when love in me grows tired, it’s freedom that helps me stand tall again. Freedom without consequence is a fantasy. The real kind is quiet, deliberate, earned like an old bruise that doesn’t hurt anymore, but still reminds you where you fell.

Freedom isn’t loud. It doesn’t always roar or rebel. Sometimes, it’s as simple as saying no or finally saying yes. It’s personal, shaped by where you come from, what you were denied, and what you’ve chosen to claim.

So here’s to respecting everyone’s version of it, whether it’s staying in, walking out, speaking up, or finally being quiet. Everyone’s freedom looks different. For one, it’s a tattoo; for another, it’s forgiveness. The beauty lies in the fact that all of it is valid even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

Because the moment we stop comparing our freedoms, we truly become free.

So yeah, drink that cold coffee in your wine glass and celebrate those little independences.

until next time,

xoxo,

aarya