A way of my own….

I went to a festival to feel better. I came home slightly rearranged.

Two people stood up in front of a field. Normal people. One of them read her poems off her phone — and the sky didn't fall.

They weren't waiting to be chosen. They weren't asking if it was allowed. They just made their thing. And put it out into the world.

Something in me went: oh. Maybe that's a thing you're allowed to do too.

And then, days later — a fog. Clearing before my eyes. The filters I've lived my life through, fading, just bit by bit.

And with it, a realisation.

I do not need permission. Nor need I wait for anyone to agree.

For some people, they just do it. It's that simple. An idea. A notion. A direction of travel — an intention, a sense of trajectory — and they're off.

They don't follow the well-trodden path. They don't look for evidence of a pre-approved way.

They just do it their way. They create a way.

But what happens when you put your head above the parapet? What horrific things occur when you shut out the noise and go within?

Threats of failure. Thoughts of being abandoned.

But I tried it anyway.

And it felt scary. Unfamiliar. A new way to try.

The inner critic got loud. The pressure built — and with it, those nasty voices. I could feel it building. Heading to a crescendo. I was anticipating the angst. Familiar. A pattern to return to.

But no.

I don't let it stop me. I break free.

Then — the other side. The unknown. The no man's land. Oh, the fear.

But then, the reality.

Then hits the feeling. The calming of the mind. The slowing of thoughts.

Then a fizz. The high of the accomplishment.

I am free.

Oh, so free.

And maybe you don't need permission either. Not from the people who've decided you're "fine now." Not from the version of you that used to be sure.

Still a maker. Still allowed. Even now.