On Freedom, Freefall, and Asking for What You’re Worth
By Lasara Firefox Allen
Motion is my medicine. I’ve known this since I was seven. My Sag rising, Gemini sun self doesn’t do well when anchored too deeply, for too long. My fire and air rail at constraints. (My earthy Taurus Moon and Venus kind of beg for them, but that’s a story for another time.)
When I set out on the road, it’s because I want (or need) to find out what’s possible in a given moment. My deep and abiding lust for freedom is one of the defining factors of my life; I am forever stretching for that distant horizon.
My best magickal tool for the endeavor of seeking freedom has generally been my vehicle. In my early adulthood, my blue Toyota long-bed truck, Turtle, took me many places. That truck was “my home on my back” in my early 20s.
Now, more grounded, less fleet of foot, Worthy Sovereign, my silver Subaru Outback with a box-tent atop the roof, holds the promise of relief—only now this dream is much more rarely realized. When I lived in my truck, everything was that Sagittarius horizon; every day I’d wake up in a brand new world.
I’ve created this outcome with my own two hands, I remind myself. After a lifetime of living outside the lines, I acquiesced. Bought in. I planted my flag in the ground and said, I will build here. The here in question (Oakland) is only marginally important, compared to the why. Somehow, in my mid-40s, I finally got bone-achingly scared of dying on the streets.
Now, ten years on, saddled with my aging mother’s care, supporting my partner (and the lifestyle he, and we, have grown accustomed to), weighted down by the stability I feel like I need to both model and create for myself and my grown kids—I refuse to be the weight on them that my mother is on me—I feel all too often unable to move.
At night and in the wee hours of my solitary mornings, the stars call out to me: we’re still here! And I, aching to merge with the Vast Unknown, echo back, I’m still here, too!
I encant in the deep stillness of my morning hours, the only time I have to myself (and even that, not always), my longing for The Road and all she represents.Let me be free. Let me feel the fresh wind on my face, and count the miles closing under my feet, wheels, wings, I pray over and again.
I’m always on the verge of running away from home.
I was seven the first time I tried to leave home; I knotted up a red handkerchief, filled it with pilfered food, tied it to a stick, slung the stick over my shoulder, and hit the road. I was ready for the Hobo Life. I took off down the many miles of dirt road that separated our homestead from the vital and astonishing arteries of highways and byways down “the hill.”
As I drive down the 5, I let the music take me. I put on a Spotify “moody mix,” hand-selected by the good old algo, who knows me in some ways better than I know myself. The playlist pulls old music and new into a thrumming tendril, weaving through my core.
Outside, the settling night is dark and heavy, clouds dumping showers from time to time. Cars zip down the freeway, so many speedy ants rushing toward the nest, with glowing eyes and rough exoskeletons.
Stars exist behind the wall of storm, but no moon is visible tonight. In the dark of the new moon eclipse, on the road, alone, after so much time bound by responsibility, my heart shatters a little in the stillness I find only in motion.
In the Great Unknown, the arc of heaven holds all things possible: birth and death, presence and absence, love and loss. The mountains echo with tears running in rivulets down the craggy hills, usually barren, now glistening green. Trees grow and die, grasses come and go, flowers bloom and fade.
When I realized I was living in fear of a rough end-of-life, I gave up some measure of freedom in exchange for some measure of stability. In the spaciousness of the open road, I ruminate on choice and circumstance.
The myth I confront is that only the destitute are allowed freedom.
Even as the realization dawns, on principle I reject the notion. Perhaps it could be untrue that I need to reject either wealth or stability or my financial power to reclaim the freedom that I achingly miss from the days when I had so little.
In one light, and according to the short-lived yet timeless Janis Joplin, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” But I believe there may also be a different approach to freedom. Could there also be a freedom to havingness?
I decide that, since the ultra-wealthy also have freedom (or at least I surmise they do), perhaps I’m selling myself short. (Understatement: this is a known fact.) Perhaps it is time for me to ask for what I want, what I need, what I am worth.
I am worthy of freedom.
For years now, I have chosen a keyword for the dawning year. A single word to invoke the work I’m ready to engage in. Last year, the word was Worthy. I bought and named my new car that year; sliding behind the wheel of Worthy Sovereign is a reminder of my worth. I’m worthy of reliable transportation. I’m worthy of a car that feels safe and good to drive.
This year I may not have actually been ready, but I moved on from Worthy anyway–even though I’m obviously still learning the lessons of worthiness.
Now, my word is Wealthy. I chose Wealthy, and not some other variation on the theme, because it makes me a little queasy when I say it. Stomach clenches, and shame patterns my cheeks a hot red.
The inner conflict of worthiness plays out in the world: between me and my Board Chair at work. Between me and the ghosts of past lovers. Me and my parents and siblings.
Am I worthy of being treated well? Am I worthy of consideration?
I know that the deeper conflict is in the interstitials between me, myself, and I. Do I believe I am worthy of being treated well? Of being taken into consideration?
In the midst of my journey to Joshua Tree for Wayward Writers Camp, I needed to sit for my annual review. On the road already, and between domiciles of the journey, I found a liminal space in The Center of the Desert, the local queer community space in Palm Springs. Hunkered down in the conference room, I readied myself to be open but composed. Engaged, but reflective.
And I took my medicine. Over two hours of feedback, with strengths painstakingly illustrated, named, and recognized. Then, growth edges were presented. And finally, the compensation piece was placed on the table.
“I want you to know, this was discussed as a possible no compensation increase review. But, I fought for you.”
Then he presented the proposal: 3%.
In the budget, we had allocated 7%.
“I’m not ready to accept that compensation increase at this time,” I said. “I’d like to put a pin in it and discuss it with the board as a whole.”
In the words of the inimitable Liz Phair, “It’s nice to be liked, but it’s better by far to get paid.”
In preparation for the task of embodying Wealthy, I booked six sessions with a hypnotherapist to battle my deep-seated disbelief in the safety, proximity, and reality of “wealthy” as a thing I can be. We moved through my “class traitor” feelings, and my fear of leaving others behind. We did hypnotic trances and muscle-testing, and built a series of bespoke affirmations.
All this to prepare me for saying no to this paltry raise.
Sometimes saying “No” is the first step.
In preparation for my review, I had researched how far below market my salary was, as well as those of the rest of the staff. I created a spreadsheet, crisp lines and color-coded rows demarcating triangulated estimates of market-rate salaries for my whole staff. The puzzle, intriguing as always, gave me rows of data, cascading through iterations and offering evidence that, if I’m to believe my organization, my value is at least 20% lower than fair market pay. By other metrics, I sit at 50% below market.
Still, I hadn’t felt completely prepared for what I’d been promised on numerous occasions would be “a hard review.”
On the road the day before, I had listened to a new-to-me astrologer’s podcast, Marval Rex, on The World of Rex Podcast. Somehow I knew he had information that would make me ready. He invited listeners to reach out for an “SOS 20-Minute Reading.”
I found Marval’s Instagram and wrote a quick DM over voice-to-text while driving. “Help! I need an SOS!” Marval delivered.
Every beat struck gold. “Don’t settle for less than you’re worth,” Marval’s lush and vibrant voice drummed into me more than once in the under half an hour of nourishing information feeding my ears. I was being armed and strengthened, prepared to stand ten-toes down on my principles. Again and again, Marval Rex reminded me of my worth and that I should not accept anything less than what I deserved.
Marval’s words hit the space where dreams are born, rocked the psyche, and shook me to my core. Reminded me of the parts that would have been perhaps easier to forget.
I am the author of my own tale. This being the case, why not write a story with an ending I want to live into?
“And then the protagonist asked for what they were worth, and got it. Their income increased by twenty percent overnight, they were able to stop living hand to mouth, and started investing in the market–something they had never before been able to do–in hopes that they might be able to partially retire someday.”
In the review, I set my feet to the floor. My toes gripped hard. I felt the ripples of thousands of AFAB ancestors at my back. “Yessss,” they all whispered at once–deep voices, faint voices, rhythmic voices, grinding voices, reedy voices, resonant voices; a beautiful cacophony rushed in my ears. “Get it.” My spine straightened of its own volition, and I felt a crown settling on my head. “You are worthy. We are worthy. Get it…get it for all of us.”
I reflected for a moment on the Ariel Gore art sitting on my desk at home. “The High Priestess Says, Honey, it’s ok to raise your prices — literally and metaphorically.” Advice I had offered Ariel years before. (And the loop of support among AFAB folx is reiterated.)
“Well, I am not sure that this is a negotiation,” my board president said.
“I know you feel that way,” I said. “I’m not asking for a raise. I’m asking for an adjustment for regional market rate parity.” As I stretched tall in my chair, I felt the strength of a million Amazons–and of Marval Rex–at my back.
When I ran away with nothing but a hobo bag full of hunks of bread and dried fruit, I felt the same joy, thrill, and slight pain of a door closing on that which had been, as I felt when heading out of my review.
For a moment, I let myself stand still, and relished the freefall of the unknown inside of me. The building and reinforcing of worthiness and wealthiness is the work of lifetimes.
On that first running away, hobo sack-stick on shoulder, nothing drove me home but my own fear. No one came looking–then or the dozens of other times I disappeared for hours. Or later on, for days and weeks.
In another light, one could call this home-driving fear a sense of self-preservation. Perhaps it was wisdom that led me back home then, and perhaps it is wisdom that still does?
And, perhaps, every time I venture out, face my own demons, stand down the fears that keep me small, I come home a little bit more grown. Sit a bit taller in my seat, stand a tad taller in my shoes. Am a modicum less ruled by the fears that kept me “in my place.”
In the light of the setting sun, I loaded my burdens (computer bag, massive purse, water jug) into the back seat of Worthy Sovereign. I felt less shaken than I could have, surely. I had done what I could. Now for the waiting and working to create the desired outcome against the odds.
I readied myself to move on to the next leg of the journey: two days off, plus the weekend, at the Wayward Writers’ Camp in Joshua Tree. I texted the friend I had offered a ride from Palm Springs to JT to find out where we should meet up. Sliding into my seat, I turned on my humming mid-size SUV, rolled down the window, allowed the chill evening desert air to cool my face.
As shadows grew longer, I headed out into the darkening desert night.
Freedom may not be an eternal state. It may, likely, be caught only in fits and gasps. Perhaps “worth” and “worthiness” are the same.
But in this moment, the growing shadows seemed to hold at least as much promise as threat. My headlights, not quite essential yet but still welcome, switched on and lifted the darkness in the immediate distance just a bit. The warm light spilled out over slate-grey asphalt, lightening up flicks and specks of sparkling quartz. Tiny sparks of gold lit up the roadway.
Lasara Firefox Allen, MSW (they/them/Mx.), is the author of Genderqueer Menopause (North Atlantic Books, 2026), Jailbreaking the Goddess (Llewellyn, 2016), and Sexy Witch (Llewellyn, 2005), as well as the chapbooks The Pussy Poems and Disjointed. They have three forthcoming titles slated for release between 2026 and 2028. With a side focus on CNF, micro-memoir, and poetry, their work has been featured in Spooky Gaze, Tangled Locks Journal, SpillWords, Mountain Bluebird Magazine, Guilt Scar Zine, Reading and Traveling, and Tension Literary. Lasara is a Witch, nonprofit CEO, accredited Gender-Affirming Menopause Educator and Coach, and co-conspirator for collective liberation. Substack: lasarafirefoxallen.substack.com More at: linktr.ee/lasarafirefoxallen
