I had reasoned this out in my mind, there was one of two things I

“I had reasoned this out in my mind, there was one of two things I had a right to, liberty or death; if I could not have one, I would have the other.”
Thus declared Harriet Tubman, the Moses of her people, whose courage blazed like a torch through the darkest age of bondage. In these immortal words, she revealed not merely her resolve, but the eternal cry of the human soul—the demand for freedom at any cost. To Tubman, liberty was not a privilege to be granted by another, but a birthright, carved into the very marrow of existence. She saw that to live without it was not life at all, but a slow and living death. And so she chose: liberty or death—freedom, or the silence of the grave.

The origin of this quote lies in Tubman’s own life, a life that burned with unyielding defiance. Born into the chains of slavery, beaten and starved, she endured horrors that would have broken most souls. Yet within her heart grew a fire that no whip could extinguish. When she learned that she was to be sold and torn from her family, she made her choice—to flee or die. Alone, under the cover of night, guided only by the North Star and her faith, she crossed rivers, swamps, and fields toward freedom. Every rustle in the dark could have meant capture or death, but her spirit did not tremble. She had already made peace with death, and therefore, she could not be conquered.

Once free, she might have rested—but she did not. Harriet Tubman turned back, again and again, returning to the land of her suffering to lead others out of bondage. With every journey, she risked the noose, yet she said, “I never ran my train off the track, and I never lost a passenger.” Such was her devotion that she faced death as calmly as one faces sleep. The fear of death could not touch her, for she had already reasoned that life without freedom was a lesser fate. In her, the ancient spirit of rebellion took form—a spirit as old as humanity itself.

Her declaration echoes the great cries of history. When Patrick Henry proclaimed, “Give me liberty or give me death,” his words stirred a nation to revolution. But Tubman’s cry came not from a statesman’s podium, but from the depths of suffering; not for political independence, but for human dignity itself. Her fight was not for wealth, power, or glory, but for the simplest and most sacred of truths—that no one has the right to own another. And in that truth, she stood taller than any king or conqueror.

In the style of the ancients, we may see Tubman as a hero of the eternal struggle between spirit and oppression. Like Prometheus who stole fire from the gods, she stole back the light of freedom from those who claimed it as their own. Her chains became her weapon; her suffering, her strength. She was not moved by hatred, but by justice, and guided by something purer still—a faith that the hand of God moved with her through the night. For she once said that when the fear rose within her, she would pray: “Lord, I’m going to hold steady on to You.”

Her wisdom speaks to us across the ages: freedom is the breath of the soul. When we surrender our freedom—whether to fear, to injustice, or to comfort—we begin to die while still breathing. Tubman reminds us that the life worth living is one lived in truth, even if it costs everything. Her words command us to choose courage over comfort, to fight for what is right even when the price is high, and to never let the chains of complacency bind our hearts.

So take this lesson, O listener of wisdom: reason this out in your own mind, as Tubman did. Ask yourself what you live for—and what you would die for. Let your actions be worthy of your breath. When faced with oppression, stand tall; when faced with fear, move forward. For freedom is not granted—it is claimed, and it demands a brave heart. May we, too, live with the same fierce resolve, knowing that to live in chains is to die a little each day—and that to choose liberty, no matter the cost, is to live forever in the company of the brave.