Why Giving Yourself Permission Matters More Than Hope

This Blog Isn’t About Hope. It’s About Permission.

You know what’s funny? Everyone talks about hope like it’s the ultimate fix. Like if you just hold onto hope, things will magically sort themselves out. Hope becomes this shiny balloon we’re supposed to clutch while the storm rages on. And yeah, sure, sometimes hope helps. Sometimes it keeps us moving. But this blog? This one’s not about that.

This one’s about permission.

Not permission from your therapist, not your family, not your boss, not your well-meaning friend who keeps telling you, “Everything happens for a reason.”

I’m talking about permission from you.

Because hope waits. It looks to the future. It crosses its fingers. But permission? Permission acts. It decides. It draws a line in the sand and says, "Okay. I’m done with this version of me. Let’s try something different."

Let me give you an example.

I had a client who came to me, all wound up like a human slinky. Sleepless nights, anxiety chewing on her thoughts like a dog with a bone. And she kept saying, "I hope it gets better." Hope was her lullaby, her excuse, her cage. What changed wasn’t more hope—it was when she said, out loud, "I give myself permission to let this go."

That sentence cracked something open.

Permission is quiet like that. It doesn’t show up with fanfare. It whispers. It nudges. And if you’re not paying attention, you might miss it. But once you hear it, once you let it land, it’s electric.

Permission means you don’t have to earn rest. You don’t have to justify healing. You don’t have to wait for some catastrophic breaking point to finally say, "This hurts, and I don’t want to carry it anymore."

Honestly, I wish more people knew this. I wish we talked about it more.

Too many people are stuck hoping they’ll eventually feel brave enough, calm enough, ready enough. (Spoiler: Ready is a myth. It’s a unicorn with a clipboard.)

Hope might keep you afloat, but permission gets you moving. Even if you’re moving messy. Even if you wobble. Even if you change your mind tomorrow.

It’s still movement.

And movement, even clumsy movement, is better than spinning in the same circle, hoping it will turn into a straight line.

Now, I know some of you might be thinking, "That sounds great, but what does that even look like? How do I give myself permission when I’ve spent years putting everyone else first?"

Okay. Let’s get real. Giving yourself permission doesn’t mean you go full Viking and burn your life down (unless you want to, I don’t judge). It means you get honest. It means you notice that tiny voice inside you, the one that says, "Something’s gotta change," and instead of shushing it, you say, "I hear you. Let’s do something about it."

It might be permission to feel your feelings instead of stuffing them into that emotional junk drawer.

It might be permission to ask for help.

It might be permission to admit you’re scared, or angry, or so tired you can’t even think straight.

It might be permission to say, “I’m not okay.”

And not follow it up with a joke.

And not apologize for it.

I’m not saying hope is useless. But it’s not the hero it’s made out to be. Hope can keep you waiting. Hope can keep you quiet. Hope can be a kind of polite paralysis. And if you’ve been polite for too long, permission might feel like rebellion.

Good.

Rebel. Especially if it means choosing your peace over your people-pleasing.

Sometimes, giving yourself permission is the boldest thing you can do. Not because it looks big on the outside, but because it feels true on the inside.

And once you start, it gets easier. You start noticing all the places you’ve been holding your breath. All the ways you’ve been editing yourself. All the things you’ve been tolerating because "maybe it’ll get better."

Maybe is not enough. Later is not enough. Hope is not enough.

Ask yourself right now: What do I need permission for?

To stop pretending?

To quit that thing that’s slowly killing your joy?

To take a nap without guilt?

To forgive yourself?

That last one gets people. Forgiving yourself. That’s big. And it’s hard. And sometimes it feels like the one thing you don’t deserve, even though it’s probably the thing you need most.

But again, hope will never do that for you. Permission will.

If you’re still reading this and something in you is nodding along, that’s not an accident. That’s your own internal yes. That’s the part of you that’s already tired of waiting.

That’s the part of you that’s ready.

Not perfectly ready. Not “new year, new me” ready. Just ready enough to want something else.

And that’s all it takes.

A crack of readiness.

A sliver of honesty.

And one moment where you say, "Okay. I’m allowed to let this be different now."

That’s where it starts.

I’ve seen it over and over again in my practice. Someone shows up carrying years of pain, not sure what they even want. And they don’t need to know. That’s the myth. You don’t need a blueprint. You just need that tiny flicker of permission. The rest, we’ll figure it out together.

Actually, if you’re curious about what that kind of shift could feel like without needing to spill your life story, check out my Mental Detox. It’s gentle. It’s private. And it helps people start again from the inside out.

Your brain’s been busy trying to protect you. But what if you gave it permission to let go? What if you stopped asking for permission from people who have no idea what it’s like to live in your skin?

What if today is the day you say:

“I don’t need hope. I need permission.”

And what if that changes everything?

Not all at once.

Not in a movie montage kind of way.

But slowly. Quietly. Genuinely.

With less force. And more ease.

And maybe even with a laugh or two along the way.

Because sometimes, giving yourself permission looks like crying in the shower and then eating cold pizza in bed. Sometimes it looks like cancelling plans without guilt. Sometimes it looks like sitting in your car for ten minutes longer just so you can breathe before walking inside.

It all counts.

It’s all valid.

And if no one’s ever told you this before, let me:

You’re allowed.

You’ve always been allowed.

Maybe now’s the time to believe it.