Frieda Was Me All Along

I used to think Fred was the whole story.

He showed up when I needed a mirror. A mascot for the parts of me I felt like the world didn’t know what to do with. Fred helped me survive—digging through the emotional junk drawer and finding scraps of truth in places most people are too scared to look.

But survival isn’t the same as freedom.
And healing isn’t the same as being seen.

That’s when Frieda came in.

She didn’t crash into my life. She didn’t shout.
She just… appeared.
Like a version of myself I had quietly locked away. Waiting.

Waiting until I was ready to stop editing myself for the comfort of others.

Frieda asked a question I didn’t want to answer:

“Why are you still hiding?”

And damn… it hit.

Because I’ve done the work. I’ve named the pain.
I’ve walked away from systems that tried to flatten me.
But there was still a part of me I kept tucked in the dark.
The part that didn’t fit the narrative people had already accepted.
The part I feared would make them look at me differently.

My identity.
The real one.
The one I’ve always known but wasn’t sure I was allowed to live out loud.

Frieda reminded me that truth isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s quiet and terrifying.
Sometimes it sounds like your own voice whispering,
“It’s time.”

So here I am.
Not fully “there” yet.
Still scared. Still unraveling.

But showing up anyway.

Because I’ve spent too long shaping myself around other people’s comfort.
Too long waiting for the “right” time to be fully me.
Too long letting fear of rejection keep me from belonging to myself.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been hiding too—
If there’s a Frieda inside you that’s been waiting—
I just want you to know:

You’re not too late.
You’re not too much.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation for who you really are.

Let this be your permission slip to stop waiting.

You deserve to live without editing.
You deserve to take up space.
You deserve to exist as you.

And if you don’t feel safe doing that yet, just know:
There’s at least one person out here—mask off, heart open—walking that same road with you.

One step at a time.