I’m finding myself already treading delicate territory as I work on Beauty in the Breakdown.
What’s coming up immediately is digging up memories that I thought would be forever buried. And what’s more is those memories don’t always solely belong to me.
I sent a message to someone from my past this morning asking for permission.
Permission to use their name in my book.
Permission to tell a story that is theirs as much as it is mine.
Permission to disrupt their life in order to gain clarity in my own.
I’m not sure that I even had to ask for permission, but I thought it was the right thing to do and so it’s done.
The truth is, this whole process feels like one big ask of permission.
Permission to accept the things that have occurred in my life.
Permission to make peace with who I am as a person.
Permission to cry for the things I’ve let go of over the years.
Permission to write about what’s to come.
So I do and I wait for an answer that might never come.