1. June 2026

Learning What I’m Hungry For

The first time a person is allowed to think for herself, it does not always feel like freedom.

Sometimes it feels like panic.

People talk about freedom like it is this beautiful open field you run into. And maybe sometimes it is. But when you have spent your life being told what to think, what to believe, what to question, what not to question, what is safe, what is dangerous, what is worldly, what is godly, what is rebellious, what is acceptable — freedom can feel more like standing in the middle of nowhere with no map.

It can feel like too much space.

I do not think people always understand that.

When you come from a world where most of the answers were handed to you, thinking for yourself is not as simple as just deciding to do it. It is not cute. It is not easy. It can feel terrifying.

Because underneath every question is another question.

What if I am wrong?
What if I am being deceived?
What if this is rebellion?
What if God is disappointed in me?
What if the people I love were right about me?
What if I leave behind the wrong things?
What if I keep carrying the things that hurt me?

That is the kind of fear that does not leave overnight.

I come from Amish roots, and one of the hardest parts of leaving that kind of life has been learning that my mind belongs to me. That sounds simple, but it has not been simple for me.

For so long, there was a right way to think. A right way to live. A right way to dress. A right way to believe. A right way to be a woman. A right way to be obedient. A right way to stay small enough to be considered safe.

There were things you did not ask.
There were doubts you did not say out loud.
There were feelings you learned to push down because they did not fit the life you were supposed to accept.

And when you live that way long enough, your own voice can get very quiet.

So quiet that when you finally get space to listen to it, you may not even recognize it.

That has been one of the rawest parts of healing for me.

Not just leaving a lifestyle. Not just changing the outside pieces of my life. But learning how to trust myself from the inside out.

Learning what I actually think.
Learning what I actually believe.
Learning what I actually want.
Learning what feels like peace and what only feels familiar because I was trained to tolerate it.

And spirituality has probably been one of the hardest places to untangle.

Because when faith has been mixed with fear, control, shame, and belonging, it is hard to know what is God and what is people. It is hard to know what is conviction and what is trauma. It is hard to know what is truth and what is just an old warning bell in your nervous system.

I still believe in God.

But I do not want a faith that requires me to disappear.

I do not want a faith that makes questions feel dangerous.
I do not want a faith that calls fear peace.
I do not want a faith that protects systems more than it protects hurting people.
I do not want a faith where love has to be earned by obedience.

But getting to that place has not been neat.

There are days I feel clear and strong. There are days I feel like I am still sorting through pieces of my old life with shaking hands, trying to decide what is worth keeping and what I need to lay down.

Some days I miss the certainty.

Even if it was painful, certainty can feel safe. Being told exactly what to believe can feel easier than sitting with hard questions. Having rules for everything can feel simpler than learning how to listen for wisdom, discernment, and truth in your own spirit.

Freedom asks more of you than control does.

That is something I am learning.

Control tells you what to do.
Freedom asks you who you are.

And that question can be overwhelming when you were never really allowed to ask it before.

I think that is part of why food keeps coming back into my story.

Because food is one of the first places I can practice choosing.

What do I want to make?
What tastes good to me?
What feels nourishing?
What kind of table do I want to build?
What kind of care do I want to offer?
What do I want my hands to create now that I am not only living by someone else’s rules?

There is something honest about food.

You can overthink almost anything, but at some point bread either rises or it does not. Dough needs time. Heat changes things. Hunger tells the truth. A body knows when it has been fed and when it has only been expected to keep going.

Maybe that is why baking feels grounding to me.

When my mind is tired from questioning, my hands still know how to work. Flour, sugar, salt, yeast, butter, cinnamon — simple things. Things I can touch. Things I can shape. Things that remind me that becoming does not always happen all at once.

Sometimes healing is slow like dough rising under a towel.

Quiet.
Hidden.
Still becoming, even when no one can see it yet.

I think I am learning what I am hungry for.

Not just food.

I am hungry for honesty.
For peace that is not built on silence.
For faith that can handle questions.
For relationships where love is not used as control.
For a life that feels like mine.
For a God who is not as small and fearful as the systems people build in His name.

I am hungry for room.

Room to think.
Room to ask.
Room to grow.
Room to change.
Room to be wrong sometimes and still be loved.
Room to be human without being treated like a danger.

That kind of hunger is hard to admit when you were taught to distrust yourself.

But I am admitting it anyway.

I do not have all the answers. I am not writing this from some finished place where everything is healed and clear. I am still in it. Still learning. Still untangling. Still grieving some things. Still angry about some things. Still tender in places I wish were stronger by now.

But I am also more alive than I used to be.

And maybe that is what freedom tastes like at first.

Not always sweet.

Sometimes sharp.
Sometimes strange.
Sometimes hard to swallow.

But real.

And I think I would rather live with honest questions than survive on borrowed answers.

That is the life I am learning to build now.

One thought at a time.
One choice at a time.
One prayer at a time.
One loaf at a time.

And slowly, I am learning to trust that the hunger in me is not always something to silence.

Sometimes it is pointing me toward life.