How dare she

I write and tell stories solely because I WANT TO.

A radical act for a woman. (Who does she think she is?)
Especially at my age. (She should know better. Hmph, and have some damn self-respect.)
And a mother. (Gasp!)

Imagine, telling my own true stories, for my own edification and pleasure.
Without asking anyone if it’s ok.
Or cowering with worry about what they – the mighty, faceless others – might think.

How dare I?
I’ll tell you.

Because I am a “woman who chooses to disappoint others before she betrays herself.” (Brene Brown on Viola Davis’ memoir, Finding Me.)

It’s the most audacious, scariest, liberating, feel-it-in-my-toes choice I’ve ever made.
A choice I make fresh, every day.  
And sometimes by the minute.

I fall short, often.
It’s a mere blip.

Because the transition has begun, and like the juicy gossip of “Can you believe…” on the lips of Aunt Mae down at the First Baptist Church, it can’t be stopped.   

Hallelujah!