The Cages of My Own Making
And how I'm beginning to unlock the door...
There are cages I built with my own two hands.
Not out of steel or stone, but from fear.
From the quiet agreements I made with myself:
Stay small. Stay safe. Don’t want too much.
And for a while, they worked.
They kept me contained. Predictable. Palatable.
But lately, the walls have been closing in.
The Illusion of Safety
It’s a strange thing — to realize you’ve built a life that looks steady from the outside, but feels like a room with the ceiling too low.
For years, I told myself the smaller version of my business was enough.
It felt safer that way — contained, manageable, predictable.
But staying small came with an invisible price: a ceiling I couldn’t rise beyond, a weight pressing down on every dream that needed more space to breathe.
There’s a home my partner and I dream of — one that could hold all of us together, where the walls could finally echo with our blended laughter.
And yet, the closer I get to that dream, the more I see how the old patterns of self-protection ripple outward — how the cage of “safe and small” quietly shapes what feels possible in the rest of my life.
Because when you learn, early on, that taking up space invites danger…your nervous system builds an architecture of caution around everything — even your earning, even your expansion, even your joy.
The Double Bind of Becoming
Lately, my business has felt like another kind of cage.
One foot planted in what I’ve built — steady, familiar, the source of income that keeps the lights on.
The other foot tugged toward what’s calling — the work that feels more alive, more me, but not yet proven safe.
It’s like standing in a doorway, holding both sides of the frame, afraid to step forwards or backwards.
And I’ve told myself it’s just a matter of time. That I’ll move when the moment’s right. That I’m being patient, strategic, and wise.
But if I’m honest, there’s fear in that hesitation. Fear of the in-between.
Fear of losing what’s secure before I’ve built what’s next.
Fear of the stretch.
That’s the cruel paradox of growth:
We long for expansion, but our nervous systems crave safety.
And sometimes the very dreams that could liberate us are the ones that make our hands tremble at the lock.
Where the Conditioning Lives
When I ask myself why it’s so hard to walk out of the cages of my own making, the answer is layered.
Part of it is biology — the body remembers what danger felt like and calls it back whenever change stirs the air.
Part of it is psychology — the stories we learned about what it means to be “good,” “humble,” “deserving.”
And part of it is cultural — the conditioning that tells women to be grateful, to not take up too much space, to be likable even in our liberation.
We internalize it so deeply that it becomes a reflex.
We shrink not because we want to, but because our bodies whisper, safer this way.
But the cost of safety is aliveness.
And after years of staying small, the ache to expand becomes unbearable.
The Doorway Out
The truth is, there’s no single mindset shift that flings the cage open.
Freedom is a practice — a daily unlearning of the old stories, a daily re-choosing of courage over comfort.
It starts quietly:
Naming the cage.
Tracing its outline with compassion, not judgment.
Listening for the beliefs that keep it locked — I’m not ready. I can’t afford to fail. If I shine too brightly, I’ll lose love.
Then, one by one, testing the bars.
What if I take up just a little more space?
What if I ask for what I want, even if my voice shakes?
What if I trust that safety can exist inside expansion — that I can be both brave and held?
And this part matters more than we think. Because every small act of defiance reshapes us.
Neuroscientists call it neuroplasticity — the brain’s way of rewriting its own map. Each time we choose presence over fear, we carve a new path. Every micro-moment of courage whispers to the nervous system, See? We survived. You can relax now.
Even our imagined fears can trap us. The brain doesn’t always know the difference between a danger that’s real and one we invent; the same alarm bells ring either way. But there’s a way to teach the mind what’s true.
In 2016, psychologists LaFreniere and Newman created a simple practice called the Worry Outcome Journal. Participants wrote down their fears as they arose, noted what they thought would happen, and returned later to record what actually occurred.
The discovery was staggering: 91% of their worries never materialized.
By witnessing that contrast (fear versus reality), their brains began to learn new patterns. Each time a worry fizzled instead of exploding, the nervous system gathered evidence: Maybe it isn’t all danger out there. Maybe I don’t need to brace so hard.
This is how the brain heals.
It learns through proof and repetition.
When you write the fear down and later see it disproved in black and white, you offer your mind a moment of correction — a gentle rewriting of its old emergency script.
Over time, that repeated evidence strengthens the part of the brain that reasons and regulates, while quieting the amygdala’s constant scanning for threat.
Little by little, the system stops treating uncertainty as a catastrophe.
It becomes easier to pause, breathe, and assess rather than spiral.
And when the body isn’t busy preparing for imaginary danger, it finally has energy for what truly matters — creativity, connection, joy.
Small practices like these don’t just ease anxiety in the moment.
They rewire your whole sense of safety.
They teach you to meet life with steadier hands, clearer eyes, and an open heart that no longer flinches at every unknown.
I’ve learned that freedom doesn’t begin with a grand gesture.
It begins with the smallest act of rebellion against your own fear.
A conversation you’ve been avoiding.
A price you finally raise.
A truth you let yourself speak aloud.
And every time you stretch, your nervous system learns something new:
That visibility doesn’t have to mean danger.
That growth doesn’t have to mean loss.
That joy — radiant, unguarded joy — can be a kind of safety, too.
Reflection Prompts
If you’d like to explore your own cages, here are a few places to begin:
Where in your life do you feel like you’re waiting for permission to expand?
What belief or memory still equates visibility with danger?
Which of your fears keeps repeating, even though reality has proven them wrong?
What would one small act of rebellion against your own fear look like this week?
How can you create safety within your growth — rather than waiting for safety before you grow?
Thank you for sharing. This is really deep.