Permission

I need to tell you something.

And I need you to actually hear it.

Not scan it. Not nod politely and move on to the next thing. Not file it under “nice thought” and forget it by Thursday.

Hear it.

You have permission.

That’s it. That’s the whole message.

Okay, fine. I’ll be more specific. Because apparently we live in a world where permission needs line items and bullet points and a notarized document before anyone believes it’s real.

You have permission to rest without earning it first.

You have permission to feel joy even when the news is terrible. Especially when the news is terrible.

You have permission to say no to things that drain you — without a detailed explanation, a formal apology, or a three-paragraph email about why you simply cannot chair the committee this year.

You have permission to want more. To want different. To want something that is entirely, unapologetically yours.

You have permission to still be figuring it out.

At this age.

At any age.

Here’s the thing about permission.

Most of us stopped waiting for it years ago — in theory. We read the books. We did the workshops. We nodded along when someone said “you don’t need anyone’s approval.”

And then we went home and asked three people if it was okay to take a vacation.

Permission is sneaky.

It doesn’t always announce itself as the thing you’re waiting for. It shows up disguised as doubt. As guilt. As the quiet voice that says who do you think you are every single time you try to do something that feels too big, too bold, or too much like something you actually want.

That voice, by the way, is not wisdom.

It is conditioning wearing a cardigan.

We were taught — women especially, but honestly, anyone who was raised to be agreeable, responsible, and not too much — that our needs are negotiable. That our rest is earned. That our joy requires justification.

We absorbed it so deeply that we now grant ourselves permission in tiny, rationed doses.

A little self-care here.

A small indulgence there.

And only after everything else is handled.

Only after everyone else is okay.

Only after we’ve proven we deserve it.

I’m going to say something slightly inconvenient now.

You will never be done earning it by those rules.

There will always be another task. Another crisis. Another person who needs something. Another reason to wait just a little longer before you finally, finally put yourself on the list.

So we’re not waiting anymore.

Not for the right moment.

Not for the guilt to lift.

Not for someone wiser or louder or more official than me to come along and finally say the words.

I’m saying them.

You have permission.

Full stop.

No footnotes.

No conditions.

No follow-up form.

Now.

What are you going to do with it?

Julie Bolejack,
The Mindful Activist

Yes, I did participate in the 3rd No Kings.

And for the nature lovers:

🎲 Bonus: Random Info You Didn’t Know You Needed

In 1962, a mysterious “Dancing Plague” swept through Strasbourg, France.

Hundreds of people danced — uncontrollably, without music, without rest — for days. Some danced for weeks. Physicians of the time, in a move that should make us all feel better about modern medicine, recommended more dancing as the cure. They hired musicians. They built a stage.

It did not help.

Historians still debate the cause. Mass hysteria. Ergot poisoning. A collective nervous breakdown in a population pushed past its breaking point by famine and disease.

The point is: sometimes people have needed permission to stop for a very long time.

Nothing new under the sun.