The Cost of Independence

I learned long ago not to wait.

Not for rescue.
Not for permission.

Not for someone to come and carry what I could carry myself.

So I learned.

I earned.

I studied
.
I built.

Brick by brick,

year by year,

I constructed a life that could stand without witness.

A life that has learned to ask for little.

Or so I thought.

Because no matter how carefully

I arrange the furniture of my independence,

someone else always holds the key.

A signature.

A decision.

An approval.

A yes that has to come from somewhere beyond me.

So I wait.

Not because I am incapable.

Not because I have failed.

Not because I have left something undone.

The answers are written.

The forms are submitted.

The work is complete.

And still I wait.

Because another person’s inbox is full,

another person’s life has become complicated,

another person’s crisis has arrived first.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The irony is almost beautiful.

I have spent years learning how not to need anyone.

Only to discover

that the world still requires me

to stand patiently at closed doors,

holding forms already completed,

answers already written,

love already given,

while somebody else decides when it is my turn.

And still,

they call this independence.