It’s a question that has crossed my mind countless times. What could I have become if I had been just a little freer?

The Fear I Didn’t Know I Carried

Since I was young, like so many people, I’ve felt I needed to be someone. I believed I had a purpose I was supposed to understand and then fulfill. I achieved neither. I think in focusing so much on that one big, mysterious purpose, I missed all the small, everyday ones along the way: the little chances to do good, to be present, to give something of myself to the world. And maybe, to feel seen and appreciated for what I had to offer.

So now I wonder, how many of those small moments did I overlook? And what could they have grown into, if only I had paid attention? Maybe something bigger than I ever expected. Or perhaps, in my distraction, I sidestepped a fatal destiny I was never meant to confront.

Iraq, Loneliness, and the Craving for Meaning

I spent a significant part of my early adulthood overseas. My first two years abroad were in Iraq, an experience that set the course for much of what followed. I’m still confused about who I want to be, but it’s a different kind of confusion now—one tinged with a quiet sense of achievement, even without anything tangible to show for it. But I do have a story from that time, one that might offer a bit of perspective.

When I first moved to Iraq, I was lonely. The perpetual haze of dust settled over a landscape that was dry and unyielding, a desert without the romance of vast, open sand—just an endless expanse of muted earth that amplified the isolation. It was in that state that I considered getting an animal for company. At one point, I even entertained the idea of getting a monkey—a notion I thankfully talked myself out of.

Two Hawks in a Cage—and Something in Me

The local animal market was a cacophony of barking dogs and chirping birds, thick with the unmistakable smell of manure that was everywhere. Amidst the chaos on one of my trips, two hawks caught my eye. They were in a small, rusty metal cage, one light brown and the other dark. The light one was larger; I guessed it was much older.

Just as with the monkey, I managed to walk away. I left with a few fish instead, their occasional flash of color against the murky water being the only reminder they were even there.

That room was my home, a space shared with colleagues from work. And, I should mention, I wasn’t allowed to have pets. Maybe fish, but certainly not a monkey or hawks. Looking back, I think I just wanted to do something I wasn’t allowed to do—to make a choice that broke the rules. It felt like every choice was being made for me, and I was desperate to prove—if only to myself—that my own will still mattered.

For weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about those two hawks. Not because they were special, but because of how they fought. They were constantly trying to fly away. Every frantic jump and desperate push made my skin crawl. I could see the raw desperation in their eyes, a frantic energy I recognized in the pit of my own stomach. A faint, sharp smell of blood mixed with manure hung around the cage. They just wanted out.

Two weeks later, my time in Iraq came to an end. I was preparing to move to a new country, excited for a new chapter with the love of my life, who is now my wife. We met in Iraq; she was one of my coworkers. Sometimes I wonder what she would have thought of me if I had actually gotten that monkey. Would we still have ended up together?

The day before I was set to fly out, a feeling I couldn’t shake took hold of me. What about the hawks? Leaving them felt like accepting the cage for myself. It felt like a betrayal of some small, wild part of my own soul that I was close to forgetting. The feeling was too strong to ignore.

Were they still there? Were they even alive?

A Decision Too Late?

Time was running out; the market would close in an hour. After a great deal of hesitation, a part of me thinking I should just turn around and go home, I jumped into the rental car I’d kept hidden behind the guest house—another quiet rule I’d been breaking.

I drove the 20 minutes to the animal shop. I walked in and there they were. Same cage, same untamed energy. But they were skinnier now, and a piece of their spirit was visibly gone. I looked at them and felt a cold dread—is this what happens when you wait too long?

I bartered with the owner, almost walking away at his price, but eventually bought them both for $100.

They put the hawks in a cardboard box and placed it in my trunk. I sat in the driver’s seat and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling in the stale air of the car. The first was for relief. The second, lit immediately after, was because I was freaking out. I was in a car I had to return that day, with two hawks in the trunk and no real plan.

I was left with what felt like the path of least resistance. Committing to more—to actually caring for them—wasn’t something I was prepared for. The easiest thing was to just release them. I drove for 30 minutes, until the city’s concrete gave way to a vast, empty landscape of cracked earth and a few determined trees.

Set Free, but Not Strong Enough

When I opened the box, both hawks shot out. One found a branch and landed. The other fell to the ground just a few meters away, utterly exhausted. I tried to gently coax it into the air. It tried, a desperate flurry of wings that lifted it just a foot off the ground before it stumbled back to the dust. It managed to stay just ahead of me, flying fast enough that I couldn’t catch it, but low and weak enough that I knew it wouldn’t survive on its own.

The sun was setting. I had to go.

So I drove back, packed my bags, and left the country.

I think about that hawk a lot—the one that had its freedom but not its strength, the one that likely didn’t make it.

Am I Ready to Try?

And so I often wonder: should I really set the bird inside of me free? Or do I need more time to heal my own broken wings? My greatest fear is that I would end up just like that hawk.

Once you’re out there, flying… if your wings fail, is there anyone who will actually put in the effort to catch you and place you safely back in the cage to heal?

Perhaps the point isn’t to learn if you can fly, but simply to make the attempt. Perhaps not knowing if you can ever go back is the one thing that makes the leap worth taking.

If the end is always a transformation—a point where the self we know ceases to be—then how should we measure the journey? What is the true difference between a spirit that burns out in a flash of flight, and one that slowly dims within the confines of a cage?

Maybe not knowing is the strength you need.

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