This Is What Free Feels Like
Four years post-divorce. After Pride.
This one came from stillness—not noise. From letting myself breathe, speak slowly, and take up space without apology.
This poem is for anyone who’s learning to be free in their own rhythm. Not in defiance—just in truth.
If you’ve ever wondered if you're allowed to rest in your joy: you are.
I didn’t have to shrink or shout. I just showed up—joyful, barefoot, fully myself.
This Is What Free Feels Like
(a poem by Adam Rye)
The air here smells like possibility—
fresh, warm, forgiving.
No one rushes me.
No one sighs when I speak.
No eyes narrow at my joy,
my outfit,
my voice.
I’m not too much here.
I’m just right.
The roads curve through green
and Robert drives us steady.
I laugh more.
My Spanish spills out in present tense—
simple, imperfect, enough.
People nod, smile.
Me entienden.
They see me.
My camera clicks,
capturing light and movement,
and for once—
I’m not behind.
I’m in it.
People know me
for what I create,
not what I forgot to pack,
not for choosing the “wrong” thing.
I brought what I needed,
and that includes myself.
I sleep in my own bed,
no arms to curl into,
but also
no shame curling in around me.
I’m not bracing for disappointment.
I’m thinking,
how can I make this easier
for someone else?
How can I show up?
No longer am I solving problems
that don’t exist.
No longer am I editing myself
into someone’s comfort.
Four years post-divorce,
and finally
I know what my own breath feels like
in my chest,
free and full.
This is what healing tastes like—
salt from the ocean,
sweet from the plantains,
light from within.
I am single,
but I am not alone.
I am still,
but I am not stuck.
I am growing.
I am glowing.
I am enough.
This—
this is what free feels like.
The ocean didn’t ask me to shrink. It just shimmered and said, “Be bold.”
Backstory: This Is What Free Feels Like
I wasn't supposed to be on this trip. But someone backed out, and my friends invited me last minute. So there I was—nervous, excited, and cautiously optimistic—finally traveling again. For years after my divorce, travel felt tangled up in anxiety and the fear of being too much. I remember shrinking myself down, hoping that quiet would keep the peace, only to still feel like a disappointment.
But in Puerto Rico, something shifted. I found myself breathing deeper. Speaking slower. Laughing louder. Sabrina planned, Roberto drove, and the air smelled fresh—like possibility. People loved my hair, my earrings, my whole vibe. I didn't need to shrink or apologize for being exactly who I am. Locals smiled and said "me encanto," and I smiled back, finally believing it.
There were mishaps—missed ferries, chaotic snorkeling trips, tiny planes shaking like old Chevys in flight—but we rolled with it. Friends lifted each other through disappointment and turned frustrations into adventures. I flirted clumsily in Spanish and danced freely under Caribbean skies. I sat quietly by ancient forts, ocean stretching endlessly ahead, feeling peace in my bones.
Four years after my marriage ended, Puerto Rico reminded me how it feels to breathe fully in my own body. I wasn't solving imaginary problems or managing someone else's expectations—I was just showing up. Open-hearted. Open-handed. Proud, free, and ready to lift others along the way.
This poem is for anyone who's felt trapped by past expectations. May you find freedom not just in defiance—but in gentle, joyful truth.
Queer joy. Caribbean pride. Full color, no apologies.
