The Liberation List: A Story for Every Woman Who’s Just… Done
A book club. A bottle of wine. And the moment we all decided to stop carrying weights we never signed up for.
It didn’t start with burnout. It started with a feeling you cannot sleep off. The kind of heavy that settles behind your ribs and whispers that something in your life is costing more than it gives back.
It started at book club. But we were not talking about the book.
Maria, a mother of three under five, stared into her wine glass and whispered, “I just feel… heavy.”
Not a need to hit the gym heavy. A soul heavy. The kind that comes from carrying things you never signed up for.
Then Sarah, a corporate queen in killer heels, slammed her hand on the table. “You know what? Let’s make a list. Not a to do list. An un do list. A liberation list.”
We leaned in. The air crackled.
Let me back up.
We’d been meeting for six months. Every third Thursday. Same living room. Same box wine from Costco. Same pretense that we were actually going to discuss the book. We never did.
Maria always showed up ten minutes late, still in her work scrubs from her shift at the nursing home, hair pulled back in a bun that was more function than style. She would apologize for being late even though she had just worked a double and somehow still managed to drop her kids at her mom’s on the way over. That night she had a stain on her shoulder. Could have been applesauce. Could have been something worse. She did not seem to notice.
Sarah came straight from her job at the call center. Her name tag was still clipped to her shirt. She changed into heels in the car because she refused to let anyone see her in her work sneakers. She sat up straight, legs crossed, like she was trying to prove something. But her hands shook a little when she poured her second glass.
There was Jen, who worked the register at Target and took online classes at night because she was determined to get her degree before she turned forty. She showed up in her red polo, too tired to change, eating cold fries from her dinner break.
And Lisa, who cleaned houses for a living and showed up smelling like bleach and lemon Pledge, her hands raw and cracked no matter how much lotion she used.
Me? I was just tired of watching women I cared about slowly disappear under the weight of everything they thought they had to be. Women who worked their asses off and still felt like they were failing at some invisible test.
So when Maria said she felt heavy, and Sarah slammed her hand down and said, “Let’s make a list,” I grabbed a pen.
And the list began.
Liberated from…
• The tyranny of the gentle wash cycle. From only buying clothes labeled dry clean only or hand wash cold. From the audacity of fabric that cannot survive real life. Give me the spin cycle. I can take it.
• Saying sorry for existing. For taking up space on the subway. For having an opinion in a meeting. For the crime of asking a clarifying question. The apology addiction is over.
• The mental load of being the rememberer of all things. Who needs more milk. When the dentist appointment is. What size shoes your nephew wears. The password for the streaming service. Poof. Let someone else’s brain hold the Wi-Fi password for once.
• The pressure to look ready for anything. Ready for a last minute date. A surprise photo. A zombie apocalypse. Liberated from the fear of being seen without mascara, with grey roots, with a face that actually has pores. This is my face. It works.
• The invisible second shift. The idea that coming home from a full time job means starting your real job. Managing the house. The kids. The emotional weather of everyone in it. Liberated from being the silent, smiling CEO of domestic life.
• The comparison trap. From her highlight reel on Instagram. From the mom at the park who makes her own organic hummus. From the colleague who leans in so far she is practically horizontal. We are running our own race, on our own track, in the shoes we choose.
• The need to be likable. We are swapping likable for respected. We are choosing intense over sweet. We are embracing the freedom of someone not getting us and being completely fine with it.
• Being the emotional landfill. For men who refuse therapy. For families who call only when they need something. For everyone who hands us their unprocessed mess and expects gratitude in return. Not anymore.
• The weight of everyone else’s potential. The guilt of not being a better daughter. A more patient mother. A more present wife. A more successful sister. We are laying down expectations that were never ours to carry. We are enough right now.
We looked at the list. It was messy. Hilarious. Uncomfortable. True.
Maria was not crying anymore. She was grinning.
“So,” she said, “what do we do now?”
Sarah smiled. A real, unburdened smile. “Whatever we want.”
Then I posted it online.
Within forty eight hours, my inbox exploded. Women from Lagos, Beijing, São Paulo, Stockholm, Sydney were not just reading our list. They were making their own. Different details. Different languages. Different lives. Same soul heavy feeling. Same need to set something down.
Here is what liberation looks like around the world right now.
Aisha in Lagos is done translating her ambition into something softer so men do not feel threatened. She is taking the promotion. The corner office. If they call her aggressive, that is their problem.
Chen Wei in Beijing is finished being the dutiful daughter who proves her love through daily phone calls. Twice a week is enough. She has a life to live.
Lucia in São Paulo is liberated from the expectation that her body exists for commentary. No more deflecting compliments. No more laughing off remarks about her weight. Her body is not a conversation starter.
Fatima in Stockholm is done performing gratitude for being allowed into spaces as the only hijabi in the room. She belongs there. Full stop.
Maya in Sydney is finished pretending she wants kids someday just to end the awkward silence at family dinners. She does not. She never did. And she is done apologizing for it.
That is the thing about liberation. It is not a march. It is a thousand quiet rebellions. A thousand moments of deciding to stop carrying what was never yours.
So do not just write your list.
Pick one thing.
And put it down this week.
