How to Break Free from the Invisible Shackles Holding You Back

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“Before we can be enslaved, we must first believe we are to be bound.” — The Woman King

The Internal Chains We Carry

Watching The Woman King this week stirred something deep. That line struck me. It speaks to how external oppression seeps into the mind and keeps us imprisoned long after the chains are gone. I see this in myself: I’ve internalised my own version of chains from childhood, as do we all.

The voices of our earliest years, our parents, teachers, champions, taunters, they often stay with us, internalised in our subconscious, and if we look hard, we can find these are the voices driving many of our reactions today – for better or worse.

I hardly need external critics when my own inner critic does the job so well. But perhaps those external voices—the ones that judge, dismiss, or control—are merely reflections of what’s happening inside. The way the voices in my head respond initially are often a projection of the anger I’ve carried for years— I notice where my nervous system remains on high alert, where I react strongly to invasions of my space, perceived weakness, or when my autonomy is overridden. That impulse to lash out when I feel unsafe or invaded is not just about others infringing on my space, but a direct result of unresolved anger directed inward for so long.

Softening control is a significant part of my journey. If love and connection require vulnerability, then staying in control isolates me, keeping me in a state of tension. By the same token, being boundary-less is where my allergic reaction to intrusions derives from. The path forward isn’t about more control—it’s about softening in some areas while holding healthy boundaries.

Privilege: A Hidden Shackle

Then there’s my privilege. The first time I truly examined it was five years ago, during my own shadow work. I’d long been aware of being silenced, overlooked, and expected to conform. But privilege? That took a while to see. Layla F. Saad’s Me and White Supremacy cracked something open.

Privilege isn’t just about wealth or power; it’s about the things we take for granted—the spaces we move through without fear, the assumptions made in our favour, the unseen structures shaping our lives in ways we rarely notice. I’d believed in the myth that hard work alone determines success. That illusion shattered when I realised how much of the playing field had been set before the game even started.

What strikes me is how oppression mirrors our inner world. Just as systemic forces either hold people down or afford us privilege, so too do the voices inside us that whisper, “You can’t. You shouldn’t. You don’t deserve.” We internalise these limitations, just as history has conditioned people to accept their place.

The Collective and Personal Struggle

History belongs to the victors. This truth struck me again recently when I read about a leather boot found in the snow—belonging to Andrew Irvine—which could challenge the long-accepted story of Sir Edmund Hillary’s first ascent of Everest. He and his compatriot, George Mallory, may have actually reached the summit in the first documented ascent of the world’s tallest mountain in 1924. Again, note the word documented. It may be that Sir Edmund was simply the first to make it to the peak and back again alive to tell his tale.

I’ve long pondered how much of what we accept as history is shaped by those who have the means—whether through survival, access to resources, or societal position—to record and disseminate their perspective. Imagine the narratives that run through a family line: one framing an event as “a failed attempt,” another as “a successful ascent.” The rediscovery of Irvine’s boot challenges accepted history, much as we can challenge our internal narratives that shape us—unshackling ourselves from long-held limitations.

I just finished reading The Women, a novel by Kristin Hannah, which acknowledges the contributions of women who served in Vietnam. I also read a lot by Soraya Lane, who has written many novels about the roles women played during WWII, from pilots to spies and many others. These stories weren’t absent from history—they were simply unrecorded. In The Great Cosmic Mother, Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor explore how women’s voices have been erased, their stories rewritten or silenced. But I’ve noticed a shift—there are more books, like those written by Kristin and Soraya, and films now bringing these stories into the light.

From Moana to The Woman King, I’m drawn to stories of women reclaiming their power. These narratives give voice to the anger that arises from a history of conditioning, where people are taught to accept their limitations. Those voices of conditioning don’t just silence us—they provoke fury. I feel the heat of it when I recognise the limitations that no longer serve me, yet I’ve internalised them.

As a child, I was angry because I had little autonomy. I had to conform to the expectations of my home, school, and society—my survival depended on it – and so I suppressed it. But as an adult, I now see the chains I’ve continued to carry, believing they were mine to bear. And that recognition stirs not only anger at the systems that shaped this reality but also frustration with myself and the internal voices that still keep me small.

That anger is rooted in a truth I haven’t fully embraced: I am worthy of more, and this internal subjugation is not the end of my story. Then, I catch that anger spilling out, projected onto others in ways that are an overreaction or a misinterpretation of their intent. These voices don’t just disappear—they are deeply ingrained. But we can become aware of them, seek support to process the anger and grief, and take intentional steps toward cultivating a different, empowering voice.

This is not just personal; it’s collective. Our personal journey mirrors larger societal issues. In The Woman King, the line, “For the British and Americans to put us in chains, we must first believe we are to be bound,” speaks to the psychological manipulation that was central to the transatlantic slave trade. When a people are made to believe subjugation is their inevitable fate, the forces of colonisation can more easily impose that reality. This speaks to the power of systemic oppression and how deeply it can shape one’s self perception, sense of worth, and ability to resist.

The reality that the British did not directly enslave people in Africa and instead relied on African tribal leaders, merchants, and middlemen to capture or purchase people from rival tribes highlights the extent of psychological manipulation. This complicates our understanding of the system—it wasn’t just an external force but one that was perpetuated, to some degree, by internal structures and dynamics. It’s a sobering reflection on how oppression can be entangled in layers, with people playing roles that further entrench it, whether consciously or unconsciously.

History offers many examples of systemic oppression, from colonialism to apartheid, even COVID-19, where external forces manipulate existing fears and insecurities to divide people. The question is—how many of us, even when the external chains are removed, remain prisoners in our own minds? The layers of oppression and psychological manipulation we face often shape our ability to heal and grow.

But, as Anne McNaughten beautifully put it:

“If we deny ourselves the chance to feel pain, we can never heal it. The world is full of people who never healed past pains because they can't cross that threshold. Like a sound barrier, it may be bumpy as we pass through, but what's on the other side is a heart so free and capable of love, that it literally draws in authentic love from every quarter.”

What happens, though, when we are not the ones held down, but the ones unknowingly upheld? Privilege is often an invisible thread in this dynamic, intertwined with oppression, not just as its opposite but as its shadow. The same systems that silence some voices amplify others, often without those benefitting even realising it. Just as oppression shapes self-perception through limitation, privilege shapes it through unexamined ease—the ability to move without restriction, to feel entitled to take up space, to assume fairness in a world that is anything but.

For a long time, I only saw how I had been silenced and overlooked, but deeper reflection revealed where I had been cushioned and where doors quietly opened for me. I realise now how I’ve been complicit in the oppression of others, even in simple moments like not speaking up against prejudiced jokes. One example from my childhood was a joke about the 'Irish ice cream van that melted,' which reinforced harmful stereotypes. Despite historical resentment toward Irish immigrants, many Scots would rather be mistaken for Irish than English, showing a shared Celtic pride. By not calling out these jokes, and similar ones about Maori when I reached New Zealand, I reinforce a culture that marginalises others and weakens my own power to create positive change.

I’m conscious that the colour of my skin affords me as much privilege as being female invites oppression. It’s crazy to think that white or Caucasian people represent only about 10-15% of the world’s population, and women make up half. In fact is striking that a minority race, like white or Caucasian people, and a gender that makes up around half the population can gain systemic superiority. This speaks volumes about the powerful forces of psychological manipulation and the ways in which historical, social, economic, and political structures have been engineered to uphold certain hierarchies.

The stark contrast between these two realities—the privilege tied to my race and the oppression tied to my gender—sends me spiraling into thought. How do these intersecting identities shape the way I move through the world, and how can I leverage my privilege to help dismantle the systems that continue to subjugate others?

And yet, privilege itself can become a different kind of chain—the kind that keeps us from questioning, from seeing, from reckoning with uncomfortable truths. If oppression teaches people to stay small, privilege teaches people to stay comfortable. Both can be shackles in their own way.

Unshackling: A Journey of Freedom

And so, I return to the question I first asked years ago: What does true freedom look like? Not just in society, but in myself. Not just in history, but in this moment. I am drawn to stories of strong women overcoming oppression because I sense the generations of struggle behind me. These narratives don’t just inspire; they validate the ongoing struggle to reclaim power and break cycles that have kept women in survival mode. What’s rising in me is an unshackling—both personally and generationally.

I see, for example, how much of my vigilance—my resistance to perceived weakness, discomfort with intrusion, need for autonomy—stems from fear. Fear that softness is a liability. Fear that letting go will cause me to fall. But I am learning to tell that voice, gently but firmly: I am safe now. I can take the wheel.

But I know this is not yet a homecoming. When you’ve been enslaved for so long, dreaming of freedom, the real challenge is believing you are truly free when it comes. Unshackling is not just about stepping into freedom; it is also about releasing the identities we once carried. And with that release comes grief. We mourn the version of ourselves that learned to survive within constraints—the one who tried to protect us in navigating life by either staying small, staying silent, or staying guarded – or for some, becoming the aggressor. These past selves were not mistakes; they were necessary. They kept us safe.

But true liberation is not just about breaking chains—it is about allowing ourselves to soften into who we are becoming. And that means making peace with what we leave behind.

This is not just about me—it’s about all of us. It’s about questioning the voices that tell us we can’t, that we shouldn’t, that we don’t deserve. It’s about reclaiming our power and place in the world. But most of all, it’s about believing in the possibility of freedom—not just in society, but within ourselves.

The work of unshackling is not just about external freedom but internal liberation. To truly realize our potential, we must confront the chains within. What are the beliefs still holding you captive? What would it look like to let go?

I don’t have all the answers, but I know one thing: True freedom begins within. We are not meant to be bound. We are meant to live in the fullness of our power, our truth, and our potential. What could this world look like if we release the internal chains that still bind us?

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