Reflexões

The Freedom I Sang Without Knowing What It Meant

The Freedom I Sang Without Knowing What It Meant

I used to sing Freedom! ’90 without truly understanding. I was a teenager when I first heard that song, and I loved to write. I kept a diary, jotting down thoughts and feelings I might not have known how to express aloud. I dreamed of living in Europe, seeing the world, traveling, and speaking other languages. I wanted to be someone bigger, different, to make a difference. But at the same time, I was always very attentive to people, to the needs of those close to me, and to what could make someone's life better. I wanted to see the world, but I didn't want to pass through it without seeing its people.

Perhaps that's why Freedom! ’90 found such a special place within me. I just liked it, a lot. But today I think perhaps that girl already sensed something in the song that she couldn't yet explain. She wanted freedom, she just didn't know yet what freedom meant.

George Michael and the search for freedom

To understand why this song touches me so deeply, I needed to revisit the story of the person who wrote it. In 1990, George Michael was at a particular moment in his career. He had already experienced the massive success of Wham! and the global phenomenon of Faith. His image had become part of the product: his face, his body, his clothes, his sensuality, his music videos, the figure of the superstar.

But there was a problem: that image no longer encompassed who he was becoming. George was tired of being defined by an image he himself had helped construct. Freedom! ’90 was born precisely from this conflict. It wasn't just a song saying "I want to be free"; it was a kind of reckoning with a version of himself.

With fame. With appearance. With expectations. With the persona that had been created. With what the world saw when it looked at George Michael. And there's something very interesting in this: George didn't necessarily want to destroy the past. He wanted to stop being defined by it. It was as if he were saying:

> "I was that person. That image was part of my story. But I am not just that."

And this appears beautifully in one of the song's verses:

> “I gotta have some faith in the sound”
> “I need to have faith in the sound.”

For me, there is something very powerful in that line. As if he were saying: "Look less at the image. Listen to what I have to say." And there's a wonderful irony in what happened next. George didn't even want to appear in the music video for Freedom! ’90. Instead, some of the era's biggest supermodels appeared. And objects that had become symbols of his previous image — like the famous leather jacket — were destroyed.

It was a visual rupture with the George Michael the public knew. The message seemed clear: "I no longer want to be defined by what you see." And this touches me because, many years later, I also needed to start asking: Who am I when I strip away what I learned I was supposed to be?

The search for my own voice

For a long time, I was a very obedient girl. I learned to do what was expected of me. To think of others. Not to bother anyone. To keep some things to myself: my desires, my needs, my voice. And perhaps for part of my life, I confused being a good person with not making enough space for myself. I hid. Not necessarily from the world. Sometimes, from myself.

And the curious thing is that the girl who kept diaries had enormous dreams. She wanted to see the world, learn languages, travel, make a difference, be bigger. The dreams were there. What I didn't yet know was that it's one thing to dream of a bigger life; it's another to allow yourself to occupy the space that life demands. Perhaps I spent too much time desiring freedom without realizing that freedom would also demand a voice from me. A voice to say:

  • I want.
  • I need.
  • I don't want.
  • This is important to me.

The song that grew with me

The years passed. I grew up. I got married. And Freedom! ’90 stayed with me. I sang it in the car, with the joy of someone who simply loves a song. And Fernando was there, beside me. He would smile when he saw me singing and sometimes say, "You really love that song, don't you?" I did. A lot. At that moment, I had no idea that that same song would still accompany me through so many versions of my life: the teenager, the woman, the wife, the woman who dreamed, the woman who hid, and then, the woman who would need to rebuild herself.

It's curious how some songs do that. They don't stay stuck in the past. They grow with us. The song remained the same. I was simply gathering new stories to hear it through.

The turning point of 2025

Then came 2025. And life changed. Cancer entered my story and brought a turning point I would never have chosen. For a long time, I said: "Cancer was the best thing that ever happened to me." Today I think differently. Not because I don't acknowledge all that was born within me afterward, but because I learned an important lesson: I don't need to call what hurt me a blessing to recognize the blessings that emerged afterward.

Cancer was not the best thing that happened to me. The disease was not a gift. The pain was not necessary for me to become who I am. But, in the face of what happened, I began to make choices about who I wanted to be. And perhaps that is a very important difference. We don't always choose what happens to us. But, often, we can choose what we do with what has happened to us.

Coming out of hiding

That's when I began to realize something that perhaps was even more transformative than I imagined. I had been hiding. I had spent too much time being strong for others. Being available. Being obedient. Doing what needed to be done. But I started to ask:

  • What about me?
  • What do I want?
  • What do I need?
  • What makes me happy?
  • What do I still dream of?
  • What do I want to build?
  • Which part of my voice have I stopped listening to?

These questions didn't all appear at once. But once they started, I could no longer pretend they didn't exist. Perhaps that's one of the hardest things about transformation: once you start to see yourself, it becomes very difficult to go back to pretending you didn't.

To rebuild is to build anew

There is a process of reconstruction. Today is September 2026. On September 8th, I underwent my second surgery, this time for breast reconstruction. And it's impossible to go through a physical reconstruction without thinking about the reconstruction that also happens within us.

But I learned something: rebuilding doesn't mean going back to how things were before. To rebuild is to build anew. With what I've learned. With what has changed. With the scars. With the experience. With a consciousness I didn't have before. I don't want to go back to being the old Anna. And that doesn't mean I don't love that Anna. I do. I have affection for her. She did the best she could with what she knew. But now I want to continue.

I want to discover who I can be from now on. I want to give voice to my needs. I want to learn to take up my space without guilt. I want to keep dreaming. I want to live. And I want to understand more and more a question that has become very important to me: How does God want me to live? Because God is very present in this story. In the pages I've written. In the things I've understood. In the things I'm still trying to understand. In the strength I've found. In the people He's placed on my path. And in this woman who is being born within me.

Perhaps freedom isn't simply about doing everything I want. Perhaps it's having the courage to live authentically with what God has placed within me.

“I don't belong to you”

There's another part of the song that, today, I hear in a completely different way:

> “I don't belong to you.”
> “I don't belong to you.”

George was talking, among other things, about the relationship between his public persona and the image that had been constructed for the public. When I hear that today, I don't just think about an artist's relationship with their audience. I think about how many times we also live as if we belong to the expectations of others. To what they expect. To what they've taught us. To what they believe we should be.

And perhaps freedom is beginning to realize: I can love people without belonging to their expectations. I can care. I can love. I can be present. But I can also exist.

Remembering Fernando

There's a part of this song that will always have a special place in my story. Me singing in the car. Fernando beside me. Him smiling. That question: "You really love that song, don't you?" Today, when I think about it, I feel longing. A lot of it. But I don't want to turn that memory into a farewell. Because that's not how I feel. He is the man I love. And that is a part of our story. The song holds that moment. Holds his smile. Holds the joy of seeing me sing. Holds a piece of us.

And perhaps that's precisely why I don't want the word freedom to mean erasing. Freedom can also mean carrying what I love with me and, still, continuing to grow. I can feel longing. I can be moved. I can remember. And move on. One thing doesn't cancel out the other.

The song didn't change. I expanded.

And here is perhaps the most beautiful thing I discovered about this song. What I felt as a teenager didn't disappear. What I felt singing in the car didn't disappear either. Nothing was replaced. It was added. The girl who dreamed of seeing the world is still here. The woman who wanted to make a difference is still here. The wife who sang in the car is still here. The woman who lived through 2025 is still here. The woman who is rebuilding herself in 2026 is also here. None had to disappear for another to be born. They all became part of me.

Therefore, perhaps I haven't changed as much as I think. Perhaps I've just removed some layers that were hiding me from myself. Perhaps freedom didn't create a new Anna. Perhaps it allowed an Anna who was already there to emerge.

Reflections for your journey

Perhaps this is where my story stops being just mine. Because I don't write about what I've lived only to tell what happened to me. I write because perhaps something in my story resonates with yours. Perhaps you also have a version of yourself that remained hidden. Perhaps you learned to be too obedient. Perhaps you put everyone else's needs before your own. Perhaps you have dreams that are still waiting. Perhaps you are going through a phase where you need to rebuild something. And perhaps you are also looking at your life and realizing: "I am no longer who I was."

If that's the case, perhaps you don't need to see it as a problem. Perhaps it's growth. Perhaps it's expansion. So, before continuing to live on autopilot, perhaps it's worth pausing and asking:

  • Who was I?
  • Who am I today?
  • What has changed in me?
  • What has remained?
  • Where am I still hiding?
  • Which of my desires needs to find its voice again?
  • Which of my needs do I need to learn to respect?
  • What needs to be rebuilt?
  • And who do I want to become from now on?

And there's still a question that, for me, changes all the others: How does God want me to live as the woman I am becoming? Perhaps you don't have all the answers. I don't have all of mine either. But perhaps the first step isn't to have answers. Perhaps it's to start asking the right questions.

And perhaps that's precisely why I continue to love Freedom! ’90. I can't say that today I finally understand everything that song means to me. Perhaps I'm just understanding another piece. The girl who first heard Freedom! ’90 still lives in me. The woman who sang it in the car also. The woman who dreamed of seeing the world also. The woman who needed to rebuild herself also. None of them disappeared. They compounded. The song didn't change. I expanded. And perhaps tomorrow it will tell me something else. Who knows. After all, I am still becoming.

  • #freedom
  • #transformation
  • #self-discovery
  • #reconstruction
  • #George Michael
  • #identity
  • #music
  • #faith