Greetings, my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

Somehow these Permission to Live posts are getting easier to write as I go along. Perhaps that’s because this is no longer simply a series of posts. This is what I am actually doing. I am giving myself permission to live instead of asking for, seeking, or waiting for permission from someone else to enjoy my life or, for that matter, to live it at all.

Will I still ask Ronnie, Vickie, or Kimmy for their opinions? Of course I will. They are my trusted inner circle, and when I say trusted, I mean I trust them with my life. There is a tremendous difference between asking for advice and handing someone else the keys to your kingdom.

Kimmy used to say that I was the voice of reason and the one who inspired other people. Looking back, I realize that somewhere along the way I allowed other people to become my voice of reason instead. Some of them influenced me, some manipulated me, and some controlled me.

The Truth

Now I know what some of you are probably thinking.

Why didn’t I do this years ago?

Why didn’t I simply choose myself?

Well, life isn’t always that simple.

Some of us grew up in homes where love came with conditions. Some of us learned to read a room before we learned to trust ourselves. Some of us became experts at anticipating other people’s reactions, keeping the peace, and swallowing our own feelings.

Quite honestly, I became so good at it that I deserve some sort of award. A trophy would be acceptable. A crown would be preferable. As a witch, I feel obligated to vote for the crown.

Takes a deep breath.

I have never spoken openly about much of this because every time I did, I was told exactly the same thing.

“That didn’t happen.”

It’s a strange thing when you hear something often enough. Eventually, you begin to question your own memories, your own feelings, your own instincts, and sometimes even your own sanity. You begin to wonder whether you are being too sensitive, too emotional, too dramatic, or simply remembering things incorrectly.

I suspect many of you know exactly what I mean.

So I did what a lot of people do. I became quieter. I made myself smaller. I learned how to carry things I was never meant to carry.

The funny thing is that when you spend years carrying something, eventually you stop noticing how heavy it is. You simply adjust your grip and keep moving.

And I did.

For years.

I became so accustomed to doing that that I didn’t even realize I was still doing it until I sat down to write these words.

My heart started pounding. My hands started shaking. Tears filled my eyes.

And then it hit me.

I AM FUCKING FREE.

Now, before you all start imagining some dramatic movie scene, let’s be realistic. I am not standing on a mountaintop with my arms raised toward the heavens while a flock of ravens circles overhead and a choir begins singing in the distance.

Frankly, I feel a little cheated.

No, this is much quieter than that.

I am free to speak the truth. I am free to write the truth. I am free to stop holding everything inside for fear of being attacked.

Then came the biggest revelation of all.

It was never really fear of judgment.

It was fear of particular people.

My mother.

My father.

My step-monster.

My sister.

Well, shit.

I honestly didn’t realize that until just now.

Now What?

So now what?

Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

What exactly is a woman supposed to do when she suddenly realizes that she has spent years worrying about what everyone else thinks, what everyone else needs, what everyone else expects, and what everyone else has to say?

Apparently, she starts a blog series and accidentally wanders into an existential crisis.

I swear I wasn’t expecting that.

The funny thing is that freedom sounds wonderfully dramatic. You imagine fireworks, triumphant music, a dramatic speech, and perhaps a flock of ravens circling overhead while the universe applauds your courage.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way.

There were no fireworks.

No applause.

No magical beam of light descending from the heavens.

As a witch, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed.

Freedom, it turns out, is much quieter than that.

It looks like waking up in the morning and asking yourself what you want instead of immediately worrying about what everyone else wants. It means making choices because they feel right to you instead of because they make everyone else comfortable.

To be perfectly honest, that still feels a little strange to me.

The truth is that I know how to survive. I know how to take care of people. I know how to solve problems, shoulder responsibilities, and keep moving forward even when I’d rather curl up with a blanket, a cup of coffee, and enough books to last me until the end of time.

What I don’t know is how to choose myself without feeling guilty about it.

At least not yet.

Apparently, that’s what we’re learning now.

This should be interesting.

What Freedom Looks Like

I think I’ve finally realized that freedom isn’t one grand, dramatic moment.

It’s a thousand tiny choices.

It’s choosing to care for myself without feeling guilty about it. It’s understanding that taking care of myself isn’t vanity, selfishness, laziness, or weakness. It’s respect. It’s maintenance. It’s nourishment.

And, quite honestly, it’s long overdue.

Freedom looks like drinking more water and eating better, not because I hate my body, but because I appreciate everything it has carried me through. It looks like moving my body because I want to feel stronger, healthier, and more alive, not because I’m trying to earn the right to exist.

That’s a rather ridiculous concept when you think about it.

Freedom looks like coloring my hair cinnamon because I love it. It looks like wearing purple because it makes me happy, painting my nails simply because I feel like it, and buying clothes for the woman I am instead of waiting for some mysterious future version of myself to appear.

I have a feeling many of you know exactly what I mean.

Then there are the quieter things.

Sitting on the patio with my coffee.

Listening to the birds.

Reading books.

Writing words.

Watching the sun rise.

Lighting candles.

Listening to music.

Watching entirely too much Gossip Girl and waiting for the inevitable, “You know you love me.”

As it turns out, joy is a practice.

As a witch, I have spent years believing in magic while somehow forgetting to extend a little of it to myself, which seems both ironic and more than a little ridiculous.

After all, what is a ritual if not an act of intention?

The candle.

The music.

The journal.

The morning coffee.

The sunshine.

The movement.

The gratitude.

Perhaps the little things were never little at all.

Perhaps they were the magic all along.

Choosing Me

I have to admit something.

I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

There. I said it.

You would think that after fifty-five years I would have all of this figured out, but apparently life has other plans. Just when you think you’ve finally solved the puzzle, life taps you on the shoulder and says, “Oh, by the way, we’re changing everything.”

Rude.

Then again, perhaps that isn’t entirely true.

Maybe I am not starting over at all.

Maybe I am simply returning to myself.

Maybe I am rediscovering the little girl who wandered through libraries as though they were sacred places, dreamed of writing, wanted to travel the world, talked to animals, collected stories, and was absolutely convinced that magic existed.

To be fair, I still believe that last part.

Perhaps I am rediscovering the woman who was there all along, buried beneath responsibilities, expectations, obligations, grief, fear, and enough guilt to sink a small ship.

I think that’s one of the reasons I call myself a witch.

Not because I fly around on a broomstick, although I have to admit that would make surviving an Arizona summer considerably easier.

Not because I wear pointy hats, cast mysterious spells, or spend my evenings standing around a bubbling cauldron.

Well …

Not every evening.

I call myself a witch because I believe there is something sacred about paying attention.

I pay attention to the changing seasons, the birds that visit my yard, the smell of rain in the desert, the movement of clouds, the phases of the moon, and the quiet little voice inside me that spent years trying to speak above everyone else’s noise.

I think I’m finally ready to listen.

The strange thing is that I spent so much of my life searching for permission that I never stopped to consider that I already possessed it.

I didn’t need anyone to hand it to me.

It was mine all along.

Permission Granted

So here I am.

Fifty-five years old, sitting in the middle of the Arizona desert, drinking coffee, feeding birds, talking to ferrets, arguing with technology, consulting my council of goddesses, and trying to figure out what exactly comes next.

Honestly, I think that’s perfectly all right.

I spent years believing that life was a destination, as though one day I would finally arrive and discover that I had somehow unlocked all the answers. Instead, I’ve discovered that life is much stranger, messier, funnier, and far more interesting than that.

Life is a practice.

It’s a collection of moments, choices, mistakes, detours, heartbreaks, adventures, discoveries, and tiny miracles that somehow become a life.

Maybe that’s what this entire series has been teaching me.

Permission isn’t something we receive.

It’s something we give ourselves.

Perhaps that’s what being a witch has always meant to me. Not power over other people, but sovereignty over myself. Not controlling the world around me, but understanding my place within it.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know where this path will lead, what I will discover, or what I’ll become along the way.

I do know this, though.

I’m finally ready to find out.

And that, my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones, feels a little like magic.

The lioness has left the cage.

The witch has reclaimed her crown.

The woman has chosen herself.

Now comes the fun part.

Stay feral, dark, and bright, my lovelies, until next time.