1 | Locks
There were no keys.
Only locks, only chains,
only doors that shut behind me
and did not open again.
I lived in dungeons of silence,
prisons of duty,
forced labor disguised as purpose,
house arrest mistaken for home.
I was shackled by expectation,
by words spoken in command,
by the weight of others’ wants
pressed into my spine
until I forgot I could stand upright.
Codependency wrapped its coils around me,
a leash, a collar, a cage.
Not held in love,
but in obligation.
I was told this was normal.
I was told this was right.
I did not question it—
not at first.
And so, I carried my captivity
as if it belonged to me.
I did not know
there were doors to open.
I did not know
that I had been locked away.
I only knew
that I was alone.
2 | Forgotten Keys
The first key came quietly.
Small, almost weightless,
placed in my palm by Ulrike—
a key to something I had never held:
my own needs.
My own feelings.
The first crack in the walls
I thought were unbreakable.
Then Rebecca,
turning the key to my posture,
my breath,
the way my body held its past
without me knowing.
Tara followed,
not with answers,
but with presence—
unlocking the unseen,
the space between logic and spirit,
the knowing beyond words.
A bit from Ursula,
pressing into hidden spaces,
a shift in the bones,
a door I hadn’t known was locked.
Andrea’s hands,
steady and precise,
guiding the body’s memory
toward movement, toward ease.
And the Thai therapists—
again and again,
their touch unwinding me,
loosening what had been
tangled tight for decades.
It did not happen all at once.
Some locks resisted,
some keys slipped from my grasp.
And I was no longer alone.
I was no longer trapped
in a world without doors.
The unlocking had begun.
Ulrike Balke-Holzberger Rebecca Wiemers Ursula Hedermann
3 | Unlocking
The doors are open.
Not one, not two—
but many, all at once.
Catherine stands in the shadows,
holding out a key,
whispering: Look here.
Not to turn away,
not to fear what waits
in the dark corners of myself.
Sez, barefoot and steady,
places a hand on the wild,
on the untamed parts of me
that were never broken—
only buried.
Lynn and Heidi,
gentle, unwavering,
guiding me through trauma’s wreckage,
showing me how to walk
where I once only crawled.
And still, Ulrike is here.
Rebecca is here.
Tara, Andrea, Ursula,
the hands of my Thai therapists—
each unlocking another layer,
another truth,
another space I had long forgotten.
And then, the voices beyond—
the Lovelets, Lizzie,
the quiet, steadfast presence
of those who never asked me to be anything
but who I am.
My paid subscribers,
the founding members of my Pride,
the ones who believed,
who stayed,
who bore witness as I stepped forward.
So many Substackers,
each a thread in the tapestry,
each a light along the path
And now, Gloria.
Not a key,
but a flood,
a storm that breaks the last barriers,
washing away the silence,
pulling words from depths
I did not know I could reach.
I have stepped through.
Beyond the locks.
Beyond the searching.
Beyond the waiting.
For so long, I carried keys
I did not know how to use.
For so long, I stood at doors
I was afraid to open.
And soon I do not carry keys anymore.
I do not need them.
The doors are open.
And I am already free.
4 | Returning the Keys
I have held many keys.
Some given freely,
some taken without consent.
Some slipped through my fingers,
lost in time,
while others were granted and revoked,
leaving only the hollow echo
of doors I could no longer enter.
I have carried them all—
keys to places I outgrew,
keys to places that never fit,
keys to lockboxes that kept
pieces of me hidden for too long.
And now, the last ones remain.
The key to the company’s premises,
where I once gave my time,
my energy, my loyalty.
The key to my car,
once an escape, now just an object.
The key to the house I live in,
never truly mine,
only borrowed space.
The key to the safety deposit box,
holding things I once feared to lose.
The key to my bicycle,
small, simple,
yet a symbol of movement,
of choices, of direction.
Each one, a thread of my past.
Each one, a tie I no longer need.
Somewhere, there are keys
that vanished long ago.
Dropped on unfamiliar streets,
forgotten in old coat pockets,
taken by those who never
should have had them.
Others were handed back with hesitation,
with relief, with regret.
But this last key—
the very last—
will be given freely.
No hesitation.
No lingering.
I will place it in a waiting hand,
say thank you,
and walk away.
Not locked out.
Not locked in.
Just walking.
Just free.
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