Permission to Grant Permission: A Hope for Post-Pandemic

Aren’t you tired of hearing yourself joke about what day it’s not? Sometimes I wonder if men ever wonder what postpartum is like. To them, I say, now you know. Except for the blood and hormonal tsunamis and desperation accompanying clogged ducts, this we’re in now is kind of like that. Blurred time lines, insular existence, living the same day four dozen times. Walking the block to add excitement, aching for stimuli and freedom and also, confusingly, for this moment to not end so quickly.

It’s different. I know it’s different. I won’t fully insult our independent, collective, and yet-to-arrive suffering by comparing it to birth. But I also won’t say that the juxtaposition of grief and gratitude aren’t similar, in my experience.

There are parts of this that I’m going to miss, I can’t pretend it’s not true. Yes, our highs are higher and lows lower than normal. Yes, I know that nothing about this reality is sustainable. Yes, I am worried that our home is financially fueled by a small business and nonprofit incomes; therefore, we have likely not seen the worst. Yes, I am worried that someone I love will die. Yes, I miss my family terribly. Yes, I miss my friends terribly. Yes, I miss Cantina Laredo terribly. But there is peace here that has felt quite human and lovely, too.

So I’ve been thinking about that. Amidst all of this worrisome loss and communal trauma, how do I name this relief that, if I’m being honest, weaves in and out of our new little world?

Recently, I found language for it. This inhale marks the areas of my life where boundaries have been needed. And I finally have permission to lean into them. A permission that I hope I take with me; adopting it as my own and not just as the mandate of the governor; grafting it into my identity; trusting me to draw the lines around our life in a way that lets in more breath, creativity, time.

Permission to spend a Saturday doing nothing. Permission to nap. Permission to not make it to every birthday party represented in my son’s preschool class. Permission to say no and trust that my yeses are not why people love me. Permission to stop. Permission to do what can be done in a day, and nothing more. Permission not to start something. Permission to finish something. Permission to prune. Permission to grieve, rest, breath, savor. Permission to be whoever the day draws out of me. Permission to give myself permission.

My friend Breanna once asked if I would be willing to read through the first draft of her book manuscript. We were just getting to know each other, and I had a hunch that we’d hit it off well. Someone without a solid inner capacity to grant the above outlined permission (ahem) may fear that saying no would hinder the budding friendship. But I wasn’t even able to get that far before Breanna added a disclaimer (I’m paraphrasing): “If you don’t have time, please tell me no. I will consider it an act of love that you were willing to be honest with me.”

I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

This is the level of grace at which I want to function in or out of COVID-19. I want to embody the belief that a no can be an act of self-love, and that I have permission to grant it. And I want to be the type of person that will remind people that their yeses are not needed for our connection; in fact, the alternative may be truer.

Thinking about this gives me a lot of hope as I consider whenever and however a more normal life will gear back up once again (hopefully wisely, and not prematurely . . . ). The peace that has peppered this paradigm shift can translate, if I’ll let myself let it.