Dear lovely you,

I’ve noticed something, something about you.

You’ve been playing small and being all apologetic about how talented you are. Then hiding your talents as though they were earrings with one that you have lost the butterfly backing for, shut away in a dusty box.

You’ve been doing all that others have asked of you and you’ve forgotten about that little voice inside you wondering when you get a turn. It’s the same little voice that used to be there in your childhood when there were other children on the swings and the afternoon light was failing.

You knew your mum would soon be taking you home for tea, and this was your last chance to pretend to swing for the moon on two chains and a plastic seat, that the council were so proud to install in 1983.

I’ve seen how you count the days and terms and school holidays as though you’re waiting for your freedom and yet it’s a freedom that you know yourself that you’re not fully committed to, as it means stepping out of your comfort zone.

There all the other expectations that need to be met first.

And then the expectation upon expectation.

Then you find yourself swirling in a mess of wondering what other people think, when really they’re still scrolling past your life on Facebook and wondering why you never meet up any more.

I have a little note in my pocket for you.

Sorry it’s a bit crumpled and there’s a bit of dog biscuit on it.

Open it out.

It’s your permission and possibility slip.

It’s a slip that allows you to consider what it is that you actually enjoy doing.

Oh, and it lets you play with possibility, even if that means the inconvenience of you needing to invest in yourself and wanting to invest in yourself.

It’s a slip that gives you permission to look into the mirror and see the truth of the woman you are and to recognise how you haven’t even begun on one of your greatest adventures.

Yes, that one.

The one you’ve been ignoring.

See, it’s there, like a dragonfly darting around over a warm summer lake.

I know what you’re saying.

Yes, yes, utterly selfish to want to:

write a book

take a coaching certification

have more time to hug your children

travel

have your own business

paint a picture

play a sonata……

The permission slip? No, it does not have any kind of expiry date. It’s not like a library book.

Yes, of course you can consider it again, much later. No problem.

Your choice.

Hmmm, but there’s still that look in your eyes. I can see it. I think you’ve been searching for this permission slip when you turn out the pockets before putting washing loads on.

Tell me where I’m wrong?

Yes, of course you can crumple up the note, toss it away, burn it, whatever you want really.

The truth of it is, the note isn’t really mine. It’s yours.

Look, look at the note closer.

See, it’s your handwriting, not mine.

Can you remember when you wrote it? When did you believe in yourself so deeply that you allowed yourself a note of permission and possibility?

When was that?

Who was that?

Can you allow that there was and might still be that part of you that believes in you totally and at some point, past or future, wrote this note to you?

Here I’ve got a little card for you. Maybe you can write yourself a new note?

Deborah Chalk is a Martha Beck Certified Life coach who helps women on the path to their true work in the world while caring for themselves and those they love. You can email her at deborah@deborahchalk.com for a complimentary 30 minute call to find out if she’s the right coach for you and how she can help you.