“I am out with lanterns looking for myself” —Emily Dickinson
I fell in love with the writing of Emily Dickinson as a college freshman at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She lived her life and found her resting place in Amherst. I admire the simplicity of her writing, how she aptly captured the melancholy and delights in the world. My admiration for Emily Dickinson runs deep, as a college student, I routinely left my handwritten poems crafted on notebook paper at her grave site.
Dramatic and true.
As much as I believed in my ability, I have equally been afraid to actually be seen. As a college freshman I wished to be brave and cool enough to share my work at one of the countless open mic nights. By senior year, I attended many readings at local bookshops and coffee houses, but I never added my voice. Something always held me back. I never really felt like I was good enough to be out front.
I always wanted to be a writer. I proudly declared English as my major in college and believed that one day I would be a published author. I still dream of publishing a book of honest essays offering all the truths that brought me back to myself when I was lost.
A little over a month ago I posted my first Substack—which to me was the most vulnerable and terrifying thing I have ever done—I shared my writing. I wrote about my brother.
First, I panicked. I called my best friends for reassurance, and they promised that what I shared resonated and was beautiful. I was so proud of myself for telling my truth about how Ryan and I left things. After he passed I made myself the villain. If I was the only one to blame I could turn on myself. I hated myself after he died, for his addiction, for our distance, for his choices and my own. But the truth is more nuanced than that. Love was the invisible thread that kept us connected. Despite the years of physical distance, which were exasperated by the pandemic and his multiple stints in rehab, when my brother died he knew that I loved him. He knew because I told him.
My brother’s death will not be what takes me out, although for most of 2024 it has. Somehow I have this incredible block to taking care of my own needs, unless I am in the middle of a crisis—cancer, pandemic, grief—if the world is crumbling and I absolutely have to, then and only then, will I put my needs first.
I am great in a crisis. Always have been. But I am tired of operating on overdrive and over functioning. I am ready for beauty, I am ready for the promise of this one life I am blessed to live. I am ready to step into a new alignment and belief that I matter too. So, I am writing my own permission slip.
Dear Danielle, you are allowed to put your needs unapologetically first, to feel good and to rest and to have fun, to take exceptional care of your own heart and soul—I am counting on you....xoxo, DanielleWhat are you ready for? No one is going to tap you on the shoulder and say, come on, it's time for you now. You must do that for yourself.
I invite you to write your own permission slip—
Dear [ your name ], you are allowed to [ ], [ ], [ ], to take exceptional care of your own heart and soul-I am counting on you....xoxo, [ your name ]
Love this Danielle! A great reminder - thank you for sharing.
I left work completely drained. I’m going to write the permission slip tomorrow! 🤗