Dogs in the yard

Do you remember the Columbia House CD club? The one where you’d get 10 free CDs and then be obligated to buy a few more over time? I don’t remember if the Fame soundtrack was one of the freebies or one I actually picked out, but I added it to my order on a total whim. I had vague memories of the movie from when I was a kid—at least I think I did. It was rated R, so I must’ve watched it on my own when no one else was around. What really drew me to the soundtrack was the theme song—something about it had stayed with me, tucked away in a forgotten corner of memory (I mean, who doesn’t want to live forever?). I remembered liking the music as a child. So I figured, why not? I had to pick ten, and the selection wasn’t exactly stellar—they were offering the soundtrack to a fifteen-year-old film, after all.

I listened through the first few tracks without much thought, just background noise. But then one quiet song made me stop. I hadn’t seen the movie in years, but that track—“Dogs in the Yard”—felt like something I had always known. Not remembered, exactly. More like recognized. Like it had been sitting quietly inside me, waiting for the right time to be heard.

It was a quiet song—easy to miss if you weren’t really listening. Nothing big or dramatic. Just… something soft—a yearning that slowly becomes a plea. I started the song over and listened a little more intently to the lyrics. It didn’t bring back memories—but it triggered something that I was unconsciously reaching for. The imagery was simple: dogs running freely, belonging to no one, safe and unafraid. It didn’t remind me of a life I once had—it made me ache for something I never did. It was a metaphor that caught me off guard. Not because it was new, but because it named something I hadn’t been able to put into words.

I wasn’t the rebellious type. I followed the rules. I did what was expected of me. I was raised to care more about doing the 'right' thing than figuring out what I actually needed. I learned how to fit in, to push the more rebellious parts of myself way down. Not because I had some secret life, but because I grew up believing that being good meant following the rules—especially the ones no one had to say out loud. At church, at home, at school—there was this constant pressure to stay in line, to not make waves. So I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to hide anything, really. I just knew that wanting something different, or pushing back, would come across as defiance. And that wasn’t something you were allowed to be.

I restarted the song for a third time. I listened even closer to the lyrics (this was a time when lyrics were not readily available), and it did make me start to wonder. A sense of “what-if.” That there might have been a version of myself I could have grown into, had things been different.

And maybe, in another version of my life, I would have. But I didn’t. I chose stability. I became someone steady, careful, kind. I don’t regret that. But I do sometimes wonder what it cost—and who I might’ve been if I hadn’t always been so careful.

Now, older and maybe a little softer around the edges, I don’t question the past the way I used to. I’ve made peace with most of it. I’ve raised my kids in the kind of home I once wished for—one with more freedom, more grace, more room to be messy. But every now and then, something stirs. Not regret exactly. More like a craving for the wildness I never let myself have. The version of me who might’ve stayed out too late, said the wrong thing, laughed too loudly, or disappeared for a while just to feel untethered. To howl at the moon and not apologize.

That’s what the song woke up in me. Not nostalgia. Not grief. But the echo of a life I never gave myself permission to try. A life without the fence of being the good little Christian model. Without rules. A little chaotic, maybe. But free.

The song still lingers—not as sadness, but as a spark. A reminder that somewhere deep down, a part of me still wants to run. To throw stones. To howl at the moon and not apologize.

I don’t need that kind of freedom anymore. But sometimes I wonder what it might’ve felt like—just once—to let go without worrying who I’d disappoint.