Permission to Be a Work in Progress

On f*cking around and finding yourself after years of living for everyone else

I've been thinking a lot about grief lately — not the obvious kind that comes with loss, but the quieter kind that sneaks in during ordinary moments.

It's the grief that hits you in the checkout line when you realize you can't remember the last time you did something just because it brought you joy. (Real joy. Momentary relief from the fear of fascismclimatechangeendtimes doesn’t count.)

It's the grief that washes over you when you catch your reflection and wonder when exactly you stopped recognizing yourself.

It's the grief of discovering that after decades of doing everything "right" — building the career, nurturing the relationships, keeping all those balls in the air — you've somehow misplaced the most important piece: YOU.

Me, at age 50, realizing I spent decades trying to be a “good girl.”

And here's the thing about this particular flavour of midlife grief: we don't have rituals for it. No one brings casseroles when you realize you've spent 20 years performing “woman” instead of living. There are no sympathy cards for "Sorry you betrayed yourself repeatedly to keep the peace."

So we carry it alone, convinced that this hollow feeling makes us ungrateful or selfish. After all, we have so much — how dare we want more?

Spoiler alert: You're allowed to want more. You're allowed to crave joy, ease, and space — even when your life looks "fine" from the outside. (I'm still reminding myself of this most days.)

Psst…

Your life called — it wants you back.

The Price of Putting Yourself Last

For those of us who've built our identities on being capable, reliable, and whatever else the world needed us to be, this realization can be especially brutal.

Because it's not just about what's missing. It's about seeing, with sudden, painful clarity, how much of our lives we've spent:

• Measuring our worth by what we accomplish, not who we are

• Managing everyone else's feelings while ignoring our own

• Shrinking our dreams to fit into the spaces others left for us

• Overdelivering in every role while undervaluing our own needs

And now? We're exhausted — physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Although, if you’re lucky, that exhaustion brings uncomfortable clarity.

“The Blondes” on White Lotus Season 3 are making me re-evaluate all my friendships. Also, see: “Why don’t any of my liberal friends have boats?”

We see the relationships where we've carried the entire emotional load. We see the conversations where we swallowed our truth. We see the moments where we abandoned ourselves just to keep the peace.

But whose peace were we actually protecting?

We're the generation who turned multitasking into an Olympic sport — which science now tells us is about as effective as trying to fold a fitted sheet while riding a bicycle.

Here we are, still trying to answer emails during conference calls while mentally planning dinner and feeling guilty about not having started that meditation practice yet.

That's why it all feels so heavy now. It's not just midlife — it's the full tab coming due after years of self-betrayal, and holy shit, the cost is staggering.

Midlife Mutiny: When Your Body Says “Enough!”

Remember Y2K, when we thought computers would crash and civilization would end? That's basically what's happening in our midlife bodies — except instead of a system failure, it's more like a hostile takeover where your body suddenly declares, “New management, new rules, deal with it.”

At this stage, my body feels less like a trusted ally and more like a rebellious teenager, slamming doors and refusing to cooperate.

Here's what Gen X seems to be waking up to when it comes to hitting your 40s and 50s: while your hormones are staging a coup, your give-a-damn is simultaneously breaking down.

Suddenly, the energy you once had for unnecessary drama, for relationships that take without giving, for playing small — it's gone. Vanished. And in its place? A voice that's been waiting decades to be heard.

This voice doesn't care about being likeable (well, ok, fine! But she cares a bit less.) It doesn't care about meeting arbitrary standards or fitting neatly into someone else's expectations.

This voice knows that the sands are passing through the hourglass (shout out to my Days of Our Lives fam). That every minute you spend living someone else's version of your life is a minute not spent creating the one you actually want. (You’re not Marlena under Stefano’s spell! You can do something here!)

This voice just wants the truth. Your truth.

And that's terrifying if you've spent your life avoiding it.

Because what if your truth is that:

• The career you've built doesn't actually light you up

• The relationship you've maintained doesn't actually nurture you

• The life you've constructed doesn't actually fit you

Or perhaps the most devastating truth of all: What if you don't even know what you want anymore?

What if you've spent so long being who everyone else needed that you've forgotten how to want things just for yourself?

You're allowed to not know. You're allowed to figure it out as you go.

And don't get me started on what it's like to stand in Shoppers at 9 p.m., staring at expensive face creams for 20 minutes because someone asked what you want for your birthday, and you literally have no idea. (Just me? Cool, cool.)

Closing The Gap Between Who You Were and Who You're Becoming

This is where I found myself in February 2023—drowning in burnout while juggling a day job, solo parenting, managing a house, nurturing a relationship, writing freelance, and co-running Kickstartology, a coaching business I'd built with Stephanie over five years. I was convinced I had to keep all those balls up in the air.

I was doing it all — not very well, mind you — and somewhere along the way, I'd lost me.

One cold Sunday morning, after my friend Natalie came over to help my ADHD brain make sense of my cluttered kitchen cupboards, something unexpected happened. As we cleared physical space, mental clarity came rushing in. Standing amidst newly organized spice racks and visible Tupperware, I suddenly saw what I couldn't before: I needed to make space for what I’d always wanted. The dreams I’d always been too busy giving to everyone else, and — if I’m honest — too AFRAID to make space for.

Photo circa 1981-ish? Probably not doing homework, but doodling.

Ever since I could hold a pencil, I wanted to write a book.

I didn't know where to start. I just knew I couldn't keep going as I had been. Not if I ever wanted to manifest that dream in my actual, for-real life.

So, I began with the smallest act of rebellion I could manage: I gave myself permission to pause.

To step back from all the to-dos I assigned myself. To sit in the discomfort of not knowing the way to get there without immediately trying to fix it. To feel my feelings without apologizing for them (a work in progress). To admit that I didn't have all the answers — still don’t — and that maybe that was the point.

That single decision — that tiny permission slip to choose myself — changed everything. Because once I stopped performing long enough to hear myself think, other permissions followed:

Permission to feel what I feel.
Permission to say no without explaining.
Permission to want something different.
Permission to be seen without performing.
Permission to grieve what I've lost.
Permission to build something new.
Permission to celebrate myself without shrinking.

Each small permission became a stepping stone through these past two years — not toward some grand reinvention, but toward reclaiming the parts of myself I'd abandoned along the way. Toward remembering what it feels like to hear my own voice again. Toward learning what it feels like to live on my own terms.

And the result? A novel has emerged (and it’s so fun!). Permission Slip was born. And I've found a version of myself I barely remembered existed.

So What Now? An Invitation

Starting next week, I’m launching an eight-week series called Permission Slip: F*ck Around and Find You.

This isn’t about manifesting harder or “fixing” yourself. It’s about breaking free from the version of you that spent years living for everyone else. It’s about unlearning the habits that kept you small — and finally giving yourself permission to take up space.

You're allowed to start over — no permission required.

Each week, I'll share one small but mighty Permission Slip that’s helped me crawl out of burnout and back into my own skin. (Still a WIP. See the title of this post.) Together, we’ll tackle:

• How self-abandonment sneaks in — and why it’s time to stop disappearing on yourself.

• What keeps us stuck in cycles of overgiving and underlining.

• Practical ways to reconnect with your own damn desires.

• Steps to rebuild self-trust after years of putting yourself last.

I’m not about getting you to torch your life or stage a dramatic reinvention. That “good girl”? She’s still here, and I’m not exiling her. She’d prefer a quiet rebellion — small, steady, sustainable choices that change everything over time.

You don’t have to flip the table — just start by moving your own damn seat.

And since we’re truth-telling: You are not a problem that needs to be fixed. We’re not here to erase ourselves — we’re here to gather up every version of who we’ve been and bring her home.

The you that existed before the world taught you to shrink? She's still there. The one who knew what she wanted, who spoke her mind, who refused to play small? She's been waiting for you to come back for her.

And guess what?

It’s not too late.

If you’re feeling stuck — caught between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming — I want you to know that this doesn’t have to be your whole story.

You're allowed to want more. You're allowed to change your mind, change your habits, change your life.

It starts with one small permission slip.

Next week, we begin with the permission that changed everything for me: Permission to Pause.

If you're with me, drop a ❤️ in the comments and tell me which permission you need most right now.

And today? Give yourself 10 minutes to just be. Put your phone down. Breathe. Feel. Notice. That’s it.

Because maybe the revolution doesn’t start with a grand plan.

Maybe it starts by answering the call.