DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

A discussion about becoming unraveled, unburdened

What does freedom even mean? It’s like one of those made-up words everyone thinks they understand, but no one actually does. We toss it around in debates, slap it on bumper stickers, or turn it into a hashtag. Then we try to sound deep by asking, “In what sense do you mean — philosophical, political, personal?” But let’s be honest: most of that is just smoke to dodge the real answer. Which is, simply: I don’t have a clue.

We often treat freedom like a buzzword—something we claim, defend, hashtag, or stick on the back of a truck. It’s sold as autonomy, choice, and the sacred right to do whatever we want whenever we want. But real freedom? It’s not that flashy. It’s quieter, more internal, often inconvenient, and much harder to define. You don’t notice it on a billboard, and it won’t trend for long. It might even be harder to see, because it begins not with what we do, but with how we perceive—how we see ourselves, others, and what we think life owes us.

Across spiritual traditions—Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Christianity, Judaism, Islam—a pattern emerges: we are not free by default. We’re born into inherited scripts, societal myths, and a mess of cravings, fears, and projections. Most of our lives are spent reacting to things we don’t even understand. It’s like trying to win a board game where the rules are vague, the instructions are missing, and someone keeps changing the goalposts when you’re not looking. No wonder we’re tired.

Freedom, in the deeper sense, isn’t about getting our way. It’s about seeing clearly enough that we’re no longer at the mercy of every craving, trigger, or existential itch. In Buddhism, this means recognizing dukkha (suffering) and its cause, tanhā (craving). Sufism centers on taming the nafs — the unrestrained, insatiable ego. Taoism discusses abandoning the exhausting need to force outcomes and instead moving with the current.

Christianity points us to the idea that freedom comes not through control but through the purification of the heart. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Not “they shall win,” not “they shall be promoted,” but see. It’s not exactly the promise of a six-figure salary, but it might be worth more. Judaism and Islam also make it clear that freedom is not about breaking the rules, but living in alignment with something truer and eternal. In other words, you’re not the center of the universe — and that might be the best news you’ll hear all day.

This challenges our cultural obsession with control. As Ishmael shows us, modern civilization has wrapped freedom in the myth of domination. We think freedom means being the boss—of nature, of time, of each other. But domination isn’t freedom. It’s just anxiety in a power suit. The more we try to force the world to match our expectations, the more we suffer when it doesn’t.

And yet, even when we “get it,” the work is anything but linear. Sometimes, the path to freedom involves breaking down. Not the tidy kind of unraveling you read about in memoirs, but the ugly, confusing, no-GPS type of collapse. And oddly enough, that might be necessary. Because falling apart can strip away what was never really you. It can expose what’s underneath the performance, the control, the coping. You meditate one morning and snap at someone by lunch. You let go of a toxic habit, then dream about it for a week.

That’s because fundamental transformation creates cognitive dissonance—the friction between the polished self we’ve been taught to perform and the inconvenient truths trying to surface, like realizing that your definition of success might be making you miserable, or that the life you built isn’t the one you actually want. The system shakes when what we’ve believed can no longer hold up to what we’re beginning to feel. It’s disorienting. But that disorientation is a gift. It’s how the mind makes space for something more honest.

That’s not regression. It’s evidence you’re alive and paying attention — maybe even transforming.

Absolute freedom isn’t being untouchable. It’s being touchable without falling apart. It’s having enough self-awareness to recognize when you’re being hijacked by old stories, and enough stillness to pause before you reenact them. Learning to laugh at your own nonsense is key before it convinces you it’s the voice of God. You don’t destroy the ego; you learn not to take it so seriously.

And here’s the kicker: understanding isn’t the end of the journey—it is the journey. Freedom begins the moment you start to see differently: when the illusion cracks just enough to let in the light, or, just as often, when the darkness teaches you to feel your way through. The dark isn’t the enemy; it’s where the roots grow, where silence speaks, where real seeing begins. Understanding doesn’t guarantee peace but gets you in the room with it. And that, on most days, is freedom enough.

Perhaps today marks the opening of a much deeper conversation—scary, uncomfortable, and sometimes downright mean. A conversation that shakes the foundation of who we think we are, or who we’ve been told to be. It may challenge the ideals we’ve long held sacred. My question is this:

Do we need that kind of disruption to be free?

I know I do. Yeah, I’m scared. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed off. But I also know it’s necessary—because this discomfort is where I grow into the man I actually want to be.