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“...It felt like permission. The kind I hadn't let myself have for [six months]. The kind of permission I'd been waiting for, as I sat alone in [her] apartment in grief, welled up so high, it felt suffocating. The permission I thought I'd given myself. But it hadn't been permission to cry. It had been a command to be strong. To be ok. I told myself over and over, I had to be ok. And finally, finally! Someone gave me permission to come undone.” — Ashley Poston
...It felt like permission.
The kind I hadn't let myself have for [six months]. The kind of permission I'd been waiting for, as I sat alone in [her] apartment in grief, welled up so high, it felt suffocating.
The permission I thought I'd given myself.
But it hadn't been permission to cry. It had been a command to be strong. To be ok.
I told myself over and over, I had to be ok.
And finally, finally! Someone gave me permission to come undone.