For much of my life, I felt like a puppet—my actions dictated by fear, perfectionism, and a constant urge to please. Growing up in an authoritarian home where affection was conditional and expectations unyielding, I learned early to silence my true self for the sake of harmony and approval. It took years of struggle, loss, and the courage to break away from those old patterns before I could reclaim my own narrative. Now, as a parent, I strive to give my children the freedom and acceptance I once craved. Their wildness is often frowned upon by other ‘puppets’.
“Strings and Wings” is a poem about that transformation: moving from being shaped and controlled by others to witnessing my children soar as their authentic selves. In their freedom, I recognize how cold and rigid life felt as a puppet—and I’m still amazed I managed to stand once I finally cut my own strings. The inspiration for this poem came after I was deeply moved by Michael Morpurgo’s Pinocchio, a story that, at its heart, explores the risks children must take to discover their individuality and the profound impact of breaking free to become truly oneself.
Poem: Strings and Wings
Once, I danced on careful strings,
A puppet in a painted play—
My mother’s voice, a storm that raged,
Her hands, swift to smack when I misbehaved
My father’s pride, the price I’d pay—
A wounded boy grown old and grey.
He loved my smiles, my perfect light,
So I hid my shadows out of sight.
I learned to bow, to never break,
To shape myself to fit their dreams,
Perfection’s mask upon my face,
A silent scream behind the seams.
Not butterflies, but figures carved,
Our laughter stiff, our hopes suppressed,
We lived for praise, for nods and stars,
And dared not dream of something less.
Yet even puppets can feel love,
A gentle hand, a warming smile,
But love that’s earned by being good
Can only last a little while.
When adulthood came, the truth was clear—
Her love was poison, sharp and cold.
My dad’s tragic death unlocked the key—
And I cut the strings she used to hold.
Though mother by blood and law she’d be,
She never cared to know my soul.
I walked away, at last set free,
No longer playing her control.
Learning to stand on my own two feet
Meant falling, sometimes hard, to all fours—
But each stumble taught me I could rise
No longer anxious, scared, or ashamed anymore.
Now, in my home, the music’s changed—
No strings to pull, no stage to fear.
I choose a gentler path—
Home’s walls wide as open skies,
Where my faith is the breeze that lifts them high,
And learning grows wild, unconfined.
I guide with open hands,
Not strings, but gentle light—
Promising my children freedom’s song
As long as I have breath to give them flight.
My children flutter, wild and bright,
Their laughter ringing crystal clear.
Not puppets, but butterflies,
They paint the air with every hue,
Unfolding wings I never had,
Becoming all they’re meant to be.
I watch them soar, and in their flight
I find the freedom I once missed—
Through loving them, I came to see
The worth and wonder within me.
Their wildness reminds me
How numb and stiff a puppet’s world can be—
It still surprises me I stood at all
When my own strings fell away.
Now I look around and see
A world of puppets, brittle and cold—
Their strings pulled tight by childhood ghosts,
Scorned and selfish in stories retold.
They move through life in practiced lines,
Never growing into real women or men,
Still tangled in old, invisible threads—
Unthinking, unknowing what freedom could have been.
In crowded aisles and open parks,
I see the puppets—
heads swivelling, strings taut,
eyebrows arched in silent reprimand
as my children laugh too loudly,
voices spilling over the edges of “appropriate.”
They run wild, feet barely touching earth,
unburdened by invisible scripts—
and still, the world expects
small bodies to move with godly restraint,
small hearts to master the art of shrinking.
My children do not see the strings,
only the narrowed eyes,
the subtle clearing of throats,
the space demanded for others’ perfect passage.
But I see it all—
the way freedom unsettles those
who learned long ago to stay in line,
and I hold my children closer,
grateful for every unmeasured joy
that reminds me:
wings are meant to stir the air,
not fold quietly in the presence of puppets.
Gentle Parent 