Well Sh*t
Rock bottom, clarity, and other inconvenient teachers.
"A philosophy exam, a chronic illness, and the rude awakening that freedom doesn’t always come gift-wrapped in gratitude — sometimes it shows up looking like a gremlin in sweatpants whispering “nope”.
It was supposed to be a regular exam. A Socratic questionnaire. One student interviewing another. Philosophy class. Senior year. We were all mildly pretentious, heavily caffeinated, and absolutely obsessed with being “deep.” There were scarves. There were quotes. Someone said Nietzsche wrong but still got applauded.
But on the day of the exam I was sick. Not emotionally. Actually sick. Feverish. Foggy. Brain on airplane mode. Soul on "do not disturb."
So instead of the group format, I had my exam one-on-one… with her.
The Icon
The teacher. The woman. The myth. The walking paradox of compassion and cut-through-the-crap clarity. She had this presence: like she’d stared down life’s chaos and now used it to season her coffee.
She didn’t ask us to memorize Plato. She asked us to wake the hell up.
So she sat across from me, sipped her tea like a truth-sorceress, and began asking questions.
One after another. Gentle but surgical.
Until I blurted: "I don’t know."
She smiled — not kindly, not smugly. Just… knowingly.
Like I’d just finally shown up.
“Good,” she said. “Now we can begin.”
And somewhere between surrender and snot, I stumbled onto it:
Freedom.
That was it. My compass. My anchor. My core value, hiding under all the noise.
Freedom isn’t a vibe.
It’s a f*cking reckoning.
Spoiler: Life Heard Me
I didn’t know back then that “freedom” would become less of a value and more of a demolition project. That life would lovingly, aggressively, strip away everything I clung to.
The business. The energy. The sharp mind. The plans. Gone.
Like some dramatic cosmic Marie Kondo was standing in my life asking, “Does this still spark delusion?”
It’s letting go of what you thought made you you, so you can find out what’s underneath all that scaffolding.
Flash Forward
My body? A part-time cryptid.
My ambition? Currently asleep in a salt bath.
My business I built over 15 years? Paused with grace (and screaming).
And me? Sitting in the ruins with a glass of wine and a slightly scorched heart.
And still—one question kept circling like a cat you fed once:
“Am I free yet?”
Not free from hardship.
But free in spite of it.
What They Don’t Put in Self-Help Books
Freedom doesn’t feel like a sunset yoga retreat and an abundance mindset.
It feels like:
- Grieving your own over-functioning.
- Saying “no” and watching people leave.
- Peeling off your identity like old wallpaper.
But also?
It feels like your first full breath after holding it for ten years.
Like not needing to be useful to be worthy.
Like realizing you’re allowed to exist — unpolished, unfiltered, un-trying.
So now what?
I think back to that teacher.
How she didn’t flinch when I ran out of answers.
How she already knew: Freedom begins when the script ends.
That’s how I see myself now.
Not broken. Just unfinished. Just starting...
Freedom isn’t a destination. It’s not a manifesto or a rebrand.
It’s the quiet moment after you stop pretending.
It’s the voice that returns when you stop asking for permission.
It’s the exhale after the collapse.
And maybe you don’t know your answer yet. Maybe you’re still unraveling.
Good.
Now we can begin.
xo,
Sanne
(writing from the ruin, still in sweatpants, surprisingly alive)
P.S. I write like this in my newsletter too. Unfiltered. Occasionally philosophical. Frequently sarcastic.
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