Permission

What does your morning routine look like? And trust me, it’s okay if your answer is, “I don’t have one.”

It took a long time for me to create one, and I still let it ebb and flow. But one piece I’ve kept consistent is my gratitude journal.

It’s called “The Five Minute Journal” and I’ve been using it consistently for about a year or so. It’s quick and to the point, hence the name.

This morning I was writing three things I was grateful for in my journal.

1. Sadie (our dog) making me laugh while she galloped in the snow

2. My healthy body and mind

3. Slow mornings and the permission I give myself to have flexibility

Number three is the kicker. I’m always grateful for slow mornings – that’s the biggest piece of my routine I’ve worked to create – the pace. But I often forget to appreciate how I gave myself permission to allow this.

I gave myself permission to create my days this way, and therefore gave myself permission to create my life this way.

No one walked up to me and said, “Hey Katie, you can go ahead and change up your routine and provide yourself some more peace and less chaos.”

I did that. I told myself, “you can do this, go ahead.”

I gave myself permission to slow down.

I gave myself permission to change my routine.

I gave myself permission to do what I wanted simply because I wanted to!

No shame. No judgement. Just joy.

So let me ask you, what will you give yourself permission to do next?

Lean

1,095 days since my brother passed away. Three years.

Three too many. Three too heartbreaking. Three too surreal. Three too confusing. Three too stressful.

Three years. 1,095 days.

There’s a piece of me that is permanently sad without him. Most of the time it’s a small piece that I can compartmentalize and keep control of. Most of the time it’s manageable. Most of the time I can keep going.

But I’m human. And sometimes I can’t.

Last night I cried so hard that I had a headache within minutes and it took all the restraint in me to not rip my hair out. I missed him hard. Maybe the hardest since the day I found out he was gone. I thought about the specific instances where looking back, I could have done more. It was daunting. I couldn’t breathe. I broke down… I just completely broke down.

But after awhile, I slowed down. I kept breathing. And then I did two things: I accepted the comfort of my boyfriend, and I called my twin sister.

I leaned on someone else so that I could stabilize myself. Stabilize my mind, my aching heart, and my battered body.

The tough part about grief is that it’s so sharp that you don’t want to share it with anyone else for fear of hurting them. It’s too painful. It’s too risky.

But surprisingly, grief also gives us a great opportunity. It allows us to connect with others in a way that is so raw and so real it’s practically impossible to ignore. If your grief is honest and true, it can bring you closer to those you lean on.

Grief can even bring us closer to those who are gone, because in a way, we lean on them, too.

We lean on them to give us signs that they’re still with us in some way, even if they’re signs that no one but us understands.

We lean on them to talk to when we have our quiet, private moments of prayer or reflection where we are absolutely sure that they can hear us.

We lean on them to still be here for us in those milestone moments, even if it’s in a way that’s not what we originally imagined.

We lean on them to protect us as guardian angels in times of strife and hardship.

We lean on them all of the time.

So the next time you find yourself in a dark moment of grief, lean into it.

Let it catch you and cleanse you and bring you closer to whatever and whoever it is that you need to keep yourself going in that moment.

Go ahead, lean. You’ll find yourself standing soon after.

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