Free as a Brat

For many, the announcement of a “Word of the Year” might feel trivial, especially when the chosen word is “brat.” It’s not about war, policy, climate crisis, or scientific breakthroughs. It’s a cultural blip—mildly amusing at best, eye-roll-inducing at worst. The redefinition of “brat”—from spoiled child to a blend of chaotic confidence, hedonism, and emotional volatility—touches on deeper themes of identity, performance, and cultural mood. It raises questions like:

• Have I ever had a “brat era”?
• Why does society glamorise meltdown-meets-party behaviour?
• What does it say about us that our word of the year for 2024 is emotionally erratic and messily self-assured?
  
  

I am free as a brat,
born in a summer that refuses to end,
where neon lights flicker like warnings ignored,
where every gust feels like a dare
and every fall is part of the dance.

This is brat summer—this is brat year—
a wild freedom feathered in acid green,
the vibe electric, unfiltered, untamed.
We didn’t ask permission, didn’t wait our turn;
we made this era ours,
turned chaos into an anthem
and hedonism into an art.

They tried to call us spoiled,
a mess of careless, party-slicked feathers.
But we shook off their definitions like water,
wings spread and unapologetic,
messy and proud in our high-flying blur.
Now “brat” means fierce and free,
living bluntly, laughing loudly,
making mistakes we don’t regret.

I am free as a brat in this brainrot age,
where endless scrolls keep me up till dawn,
where TikTok reels and endless memes
stick like bright feathers in my nest,
a haze of colours, noise, and dopamine highs.
We float on the winds of distraction,
eyes glazed, but spirits sharp,
caught between the party and the breakdown,
too honest to hide, too bold to care.

I confess: it’s an era of strange freedoms,
a year of loving and losing ourselves
in this haze of raw, delirious nights.
Each morning we rise, a bit undone,
yet boundless in our messy glory,
perched high above the rules we’ve shattered,
defiant and light as feathers
lifted on gusts of our own rebellion.

For once, we’re more than what they called us—
we’re more than kids with loud opinions,
more than reckless dancers under city lights.
We’re free, and we’re brats,
and we’re flying in whatever direction we choose,
each turn a confession, each dive a dare,
the horizon ours to chase or break through,
the world spinning below,
and us, high, high above,
wild, alive, and free as birds.

Daily writing prompt

Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

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