Glad you replied me.
I realized not long ago that I’ve spent my entire life waiting for permission. Because I’m a good girl, you see. In my twenties I felt the burning desire in my heart for something more than a go-nowhere nine-to-five office job and the bar on the weekends.
I wanted a career as a singer. Travel. Excitement. Adventure. Heart-stopping moments of bliss.
And I wanted somebody—anybody—to tell me that it was okay, that I should go ahead with it. I don’t mean Oprah or some random person speaking to the masses. I wanted somebody who knew me to give me the green light.
Guess what? It never happened, and it never will. Why? Because nobody can give us permission but ourselves.
Nobody outside ourselves knows what’s going on in our hearts, no matter how we try to explain.