Since arriving in Panama, I've become fascinated by the dogs.
There are dogs everywhere. What we might call stray dogs in the United States seem to be a normal part of life here. I often see six or eight of them running around together on the beach. They are friendly, and I've watched people bring food out for them. They seem to have their own little communities and move through the world with a kind of ease that I've found myself noticing more and more.
They also seem to have their own idea of entertainment.
When a dune buggy comes down the beach, the dogs often take off after it, barking and chasing it as far as they can. And it isn't just one or two dogs. Dogs come running from all over the beach to join in. The people driving the dune buggies clearly don't enjoy it. They're worried about accidentally hitting one of them, while the dogs seem to think it is the greatest game in the world.
I'll admit, it makes me laugh.
Watching them race down the beach after a dune buggy, completely committed to the chase until they simply can't run anymore, is one of those little things I never expected to find myself watching here.
The more I watch these dogs, the more I find myself questioning the word "stray."
The word itself carries an assumption of ownership. A dog is either someone's dog, or it is a stray. But why do we automatically define an animal's place in the world by whether or not it belongs to a person?
Maybe that's what has been making me think about these dogs so much.
The other day, I watched two of these dogs playing in the waves. They ran into the water, swam, chased each other, and seemed completely absorbed in the moment.
I felt an overwhelming sense of bliss and joy watching them.
For a few minutes, I wasn't thinking about whether they had owners or where they slept or whether they had been vaccinated or what might happen to them tomorrow. I was simply watching two animals experience something that looked, to me, like pure freedom.
And it made me wonder how much of our relationship with animals is really about caring for them and how much is about our need to control them.
I have to admit that I don't always romanticize the dogs. Sometimes I feel a little hesitant when I see them moving together in a pack. Sometimes I get annoyed when they do their business on the beach.
But then I remind myself that I don't own the beach either.
The beach is vast. I can choose where I walk. I can avoid the places where they've been. I don't get to decide that the beach belongs to me simply because I don't like what another living creature is doing there.
There are also people here, particularly some expats, who are concerned about the dogs reproducing. They sometimes gather the dogs and take them to spay and neuter clinics. I understand the reasons for doing this, and I can see the benefits. An uncontrolled population can create real problems, and caring for animals also means considering their health and the wellbeing of the larger community.
But even this brings me back to the question of freedom.
We make decisions for animals all the time. We decide where they can live, what they can eat, whether they reproduce, and what happens to them when we believe we know what is best.
I'm not saying these decisions are necessarily wrong. In many cases, caring for animals requires us to intervene.
But it does make me wonder about our human tendency to exert control over the natural world.
We do it everywhere.
We alter rivers to control where water flows. We choose which plants to grow and which ones to eliminate. We breed certain species for the characteristics we want. We use pesticides to protect crops from insects. We reshape landscapes to make them more useful or convenient for us.
Sometimes these choices are necessary. Sometimes they protect people or ecosystems. But often we make them because we want the world to behave in ways that are more predictable and convenient for us.
And the more I think about that, the more I realize that we do something very similar with ourselves.
We learn what is expected of us. We learn what a successful life is supposed to look like, what choices are considered acceptable, what kind of work we should do, where we should live, and how we are supposed to behave. Little by little, we can begin to build our lives around those expectations without ever stopping to ask whether they are actually what we want.
I've become increasingly aware of how much of my own life has been shaped by making a different choice.
I've followed my heart and my passions, even when they weren't the conventional choice. I've left things that no longer felt right. I've moved, traveled, created, started over, and allowed myself to follow paths without knowing exactly where they would lead. I've made choices that could have ended in failure, but I would rather fail at living a life that feels authentic to me than succeed at living someone else's idea of what my life should be.
People sometimes tell me they admire me or even envy me for the way I live.
That has always baffled me a little.
Because what they are seeing isn't necessarily some extraordinary freedom that I have and they don't. They are seeing what happens when I give myself permission to exercise the freedom I do have.
And I think that is where this question becomes personal for me.
How much freedom do we actually give ourselves?
How many of the limitations in our lives are truly limitations, and how many are expectations we've accepted without questioning them?
Of course, freedom isn't simply doing whatever we want.
Our choices affect other people. They affect animals. They affect the natural world. If exercising my freedom causes real harm to others or to the larger community, then perhaps what I'm calling freedom is really just selfishness.
There is a responsibility that comes with being free.
But there is also a difference between causing harm and making choices that someone else doesn't like.
Sometimes people feel hurt or uncomfortable when we make choices they wouldn't make themselves. Sometimes they want us to live according to their expectations because our choices challenge the boundaries they've placed on their own lives.
That doesn't necessarily mean we've done anything wrong.
Maybe part of freedom is learning to recognize the difference between someone else's discomfort and actual harm.
I keep coming back to those two dogs in the waves.
They weren't thinking about whether they were supposed to be there. They weren't trying to live up to anyone's expectations. They weren't worried about whether their choices made sense to anyone else.
They were simply running, swimming, playing, and enjoying the water.
I don't know what freedom feels like to a dog. I can only know what I felt while watching them.
And what I felt was joy.
Pure, uncomplicated joy.
Not an answer about what freedom is, but a reminder to ask myself where I might be giving away freedom that is actually mine to exercise.
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If you enjoyed Running Free, you might also enjoy An Insider’s Day in the Yucatán, a journey through the small towns, ancient Maya sites, cenotes, and colorful communities I experienced with a local friend who gave me an insider’s perspective on the land and culture of the Yucatán.