(Image: Sabrina Ward Harrison)

I am allowed to leave the kitchen a mess if I feel like it.

I am allowed to spend the entire night on my art without feeling guilty.

I am allowed to wonder my way through the different ways my life could go from this point on.

I am allowed to not return peoples’ phone calls.

I am allowed to eat dark chocolate for breakfast.

I am allowed to wallow in a case of the saddies at least once a day.

I am allowed to daydream.

I am allowed to have time alone, and to myself.

I am allowed to create my own sacred spaces and I am allowed to choose who gets to enter them, and who doesn’t.

I am allowed to be soft, feminine, and sensitive when it suits me.

I am allowed to be a take-no-prisoners, get-outta-my-way, Valkyrie when I need to be.

I am allowed to exercise my right to organize my world.

I am allowed to erect boundaries with the people I love (and with the people I don’t love).

I am allowed to keep to those boundaries, even when it isn’t popular.

I am allowed to expect success, achievement, and abundance…as well as pleasure, joy, and play.

I am allowed to take a day to go off the map and have adventures.

I am allowed to create my own life.

I am allowed to be wrong. I am allowed to make mistakes.

I am allowed to have an ego that wants to be right…sometimes.

I am allowed human failings, foibles, and fumbles.

I am allowed deep emotional reactions.

I am allowed to disengage from the world sometimes.

I am allowed to wonder what the hell normal is, anyway.

I am allowed to have treasures, and to cling to them, despite the fact that I know that the real treasures reside within me.

I am allowed to be angry.

I am allowed to rage, and rail, and run rampant when it strikes me.

I am allowed the space to do this.

I am allowed to expect people to treat me well.

I am allowed to cut off their access to me if they don’t.

I am allowed to mourn.

I am allowed grief.

I am allowed joy.

I am allowed.

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