Permission to Proceed

Story

It started with an application. Or three. Okay, five. Reality shows. Competitions. Ones I wasn’t even sure I’d get picked for, let alone survive without sobbing on national TV. But the idea lit something in me: I was done waiting for permission.

I wasn’t supposed to be the type. I was a mom. A professor. Someone who knew how to make risotto and fill out FAFSA forms. Not someone filming casting videos on her patio and whispering into her phone, “I’m the one you want.”

But one morning, coffee in hand, still in my robe, I pressed “submit.” And then I laughed out loud. Not because I was sure it would go somewhere—but because I knew I had already gone somewhere different just by saying yes.

That click was a rebellion. Not against anyone else—against the smaller version of myself I kept defaulting to. The one who waited her turn. The one who didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. The one who thought reinvention had to come with a roadmap.

I didn’t know where I was going. But I’d finally given myself permission to proceed.

Permission is a powerful thing. For so long, we tie our worth to roles we play: mother, daughter, partner, professional. We don’t even realize how much we’re waiting—for approval, support, proof we’re not crazy.

But no one is coming with a gold star and a green light. The permission slip? You write it yourself.

You don’t have to know the whole plan to start. You just have to move.

Soaring Lesson

Write your own permission slip.

Finish this sentence: I give myself permission to...
Now say it out loud. Put it on your fridge. Text it to a friend. Make it real.

One Bold Move

Choose one thing you’ve been secretly wanting to try.
Then take one small action toward it this week. Just one. Book the class. Buy the lipstick. Open the damn document.
Don’t wait to be ready. Just begin.