There's a strange kind of life that exists between freedom and restriction — a place where you're technically allowed to do things, but still feel like you need to ask for permission from the air around you. I live there. It's the in-between world where "yes" never feels like a full yes, and "no" doesn't always mean no.
My parents aren't the strictest, but they're not lenient either. They're somewhere in the middle — the type who believe they've given me all the freedom I could ask for, yet still hold invisible strings attached to every choice I make. It's not prison. But it's not liberty either. It's… conditional freedom.
If I want to go out, I can — but only after a few questions, a few explanations, a few reminders about being careful, being proper, being home on time. They'll say yes, but it always comes with a quiet layer of guilt, as if saying "yes" costs them peace. And I end up wondering if I should've stayed home in the first place.
I don't live in rebellion. I live in hesitation.
Every decision I make feels like I'm walking a tightrope between wanting to be trusted and not wanting to disappoint them. I have freedom, but it's wrapped in a thousand unspoken conditions. It's the kind of freedom that asks for updates every hour, that wants to know who, where, and why — even when you're twenty-something and learning to build your own world.
Sometimes, I envy those who can just say, "I'm going out," and leave without thinking twice. For me, every outing is a small performance — one where I balance honesty with diplomacy, where I measure my words carefully because one wrong tone can change a yes to a no.
And yet, I can't say my parents are bad. They love me. They care. Their rules come from fear — fear of the world, fear of losing control, fear of me getting hurt. I understand that. Maybe that's what makes it harder. Because how do you explain to someone that your restrictions come wrapped in love? That you're not angry, just tired of feeling half-free?
It's a strange relationship — the one between love and control. Parents believe they're protecting you, while you're trying to learn how to protect yourself. They call it guidance; you call it suffocation. They say, "We trust you, but we don't trust the world." And somehow that sentence feels heavier than it sounds.
There are moments when I try to rebel silently — not by doing something reckless, but by doing something simple, like staying out a little longer, or not explaining every detail. And every time I do, I feel a mix of pride and guilt — pride that I made my own choice, guilt that it might have hurt them. Freedom shouldn't feel like that, should it? It shouldn't come with guilt attached.
I think the hardest part is pretending to have freedom when you know you don't. People see you living abroad, studying, exploring — they assume you're independent, that you have full control over your life. But they don't see the invisible rules that follow you everywhere. The phone calls, the unspoken expectations, the quiet fear of being misunderstood.
It's not about being ungrateful. I know what they've done for me. I know how much they've sacrificed. But sometimes I wish they knew that I'm not asking for rebellion — I'm asking for trust. For the space to make mistakes, to learn, to fall and stand again without being reminded that I should've known better.
When I first left home, I thought freedom would come naturally. I thought once I was in a new city, breathing my own air, making my own money, I'd feel liberated. But the truth is, the kind of control parents build doesn't end at the door — it follows you inside your thoughts. You carry their voices in your head. You question every choice as if they're still watching.
It's like being free in the world but trapped in your mind.
You learn to live between boundaries that don't exist physically but have been carved deep into your conscience. You don't even need them to say "no" anymore — your brain says it for them. You internalize their rules until they sound like your own.
Still, I'm not angry about it. Not anymore.
Because as much as this half-freedom hurts, it's also shaped me. It's made me thoughtful, careful, responsible. I know how to think before I act, how to weigh consequences, how to stand on my own even when I doubt myself. There's strength hidden in that balance.
But sometimes I wish I could tell them how confusing it feels — this tug-of-war between gratitude and frustration. How I sometimes envy people who can be careless, who can speak their minds without fearing disappointment. I wish I could say that I'm not trying to run away from their values; I'm just trying to grow beyond their shadows.
Maybe someday, I will.
Maybe someday, they'll understand that letting me go isn't losing me. That freedom doesn't mean disrespect. That trust can exist even without control.
Until then, I keep living in that middle ground — the gray zone where I can, but also can't. Where I'm allowed, but not completely. Where I'm loved deeply, but still measured carefully.
It's the kind of life that makes you strong in silence. You learn to make peace with invisible rules. You learn how to push the boundaries without breaking them. You learn patience — the kind that grows quietly, without applause.
And slowly, you start creating your own kind of freedom — one that doesn't need permission, one that doesn't demand rebellion, one that simply exists inside you. The kind that says, "Even if I can't go everywhere I want, I'll still grow wherever I am."
That's the freedom I've learned to build — the one that lives in small choices, in the courage to speak softly, in the decision to live authentically even when you can't loudly claim it.
So when people ask, "Are your parents strict?" I never know how to answer. Because they are — but not that strict. I'm free — but not completely. It's complicated, layered, and maybe that's okay. Because even in that limitation, I've found something important: myself.
Maybe one day I'll have my own version of freedom — not borrowed, not conditional, not questioned. But until then, I'll keep balancing between love and independence, learning to breathe between the lines.
Because sometimes, the most powerful kind of freedom isn't about breaking rules — it's about quietly learning how to live beyond them.