Ahhhhhh!!! I relate to this so deeply! I, too, have tried to tame my wild side. Even wrote this about it:

THE THRESHOLD

The air is heavy with the scent of rain and metal. A storm swirls overhead, not quite breaking, suspended in time. I'm standing barefoot on the edge of a crumbling stone and metal bridge that stretches across a chasm of smoke and wind.

One side of the bridge anchors me to the world I’ve always known—its bricks hardened by duty, silence, survival.

The other side leads to a land I can’t quite see—only feel. Something about it vibrates with warmth, possibility, and genuine freedom.

Two figures emerge from opposite ends of the bridge.

To my left: a figure in a cloak of ashes and armor, her eyes tired but sharp. She holds a ledger in one hand, a shield in the other. This is Duty—also known as Illusion. She speaks with the voice of teachers, bosses, ancestors, the tired part of me that just wants to be safe.

“You can’t just walk away. Who will pay the bills? Who will explain themselves? Who will understand you when you fall apart again? This world doesn’t owe you comfort, only survival. You’ve built something here. It may be a cage, but at least it’s predictable.”

To my right: a figure cloaked in soft light, barefoot, hair twisted and tangled by wind. She holds no weapons—only a flame in her palm that flickers with each heartbeat. This is Truth, also known as Becoming. She speaks with the voice I once trusted before the world trained it out of me.

“It’s time. You’ve already died a thousand quiet deaths trying to belong where you were never meant to fit. You’re not lazy. You’re not broken. You’re awakening. What you feel is not failure—it’s the seed of your freedom pushing against the shell.”

The two figures stare at one another. I am the fulcrum. The bridge begins to crack.

The voice of Illusion rises, sharp like a blade:

“And where will she go if she listens to you? What if no one catches her? What if she ends up alone again, hungry, ashamed, begging to come back?”

Truth doesn’t argue. She steps closer, places the flame in my hand.

“I won’t promise safety. But I promise integrity. And that’s where your peace will begin again. Not in certainty—but in wholeness.”

My palms tingle.

Behind me, the winds of the old world howl. In front of me, I can hear birds in the distance—ones I haven’t heard in years. I feel them in my bones before my ears catch their song.

This is the moment of choosing.

Not between safety and recklessness. But between self-betrayal and self-trust.

The flame in my hand does not burn. It steadies.

And now the question rises—not from either figure, but from my own soul:

“Which version of me do I want to keep building? The one who survives by silencing her knowing—or the one who risks everything to follow it?”

Trust yourself. Let your wild side free! She is needed now more than ever…