The Permission Slip: What Happens When We Allow Ourselves to "Just Do Things"

I've been thinking about permission lately. Not the kind we seek from others, but the kind we grant ourselves—often reluctantly, if at all.

ZillowGoneWild on Instagram recently launched a feature called "You can just do things," showcasing homes where people have chosen wild self-expression over convention. Gigantic lazy rivers flowing through living rooms. Turkish bath-inspired sanctuaries. Spaces that whisper (or shout) their owners' inner dreams into physical existence.

And I've been sitting with this simple truth: we can just do things.

We can decide to wear our insides on the outside. We don't have to shrink ourselves into millennial beige or cottage chic or whatever aesthetic is currently deemed acceptable. We can be whatever the hell we are called to be.

For years, I carried shame about my arms. Even in sweltering heat, I kept them covered to the elbow—hiding their size, their softness, the way they made my already broad shoulders appear wider. I crafted an entire wardrobe around concealing parts of myself I'd decided were unacceptable.

Until one day, in my own "you can just do things" moment, I realized—what if, instead of hiding my arms, I adorned them?

What if I transformed what I perceived as my greatest physical flaw into a canvas for meaning?

Now, thanks to an incredible artist, Annie Bone, my right upper arm proudly displays Miss Piggy, while my left showcases 1990s Dolly Parton. These aren't random choices or impulsive decisions. They're intentional acts of reclamation.

In my teenage years, exploring new wave spiritualism, I learned about energy flow through the body. Whether scientifically accurate or not (sorry, Mom), I was taught that energy moves through us from right to left. Pain on our right side signals how we're showing up for ourselves; discomfort on our left reflects how we show up in the world.

With this understanding, I chose Dolly for my left arm—the side that faces outward, that interacts with the world. I've loved her since childhood, when I first watched her sing "I Will Always Love You" at the end of her variety show. When I imagined how I wanted to show up in the world, it was Dolly—generous, loving, firm in her beliefs and steadfast in herself.

For my right arm—the side that represents how I show up for myself—there was only Miss Piggy. This magnificent muppet embodies radical self-love. She's curvy, vivacious, and gloriously unapologetic. She demands the spotlight not because she's perfect, but because she knows she deserves it exactly as she is.

What some might dismiss as ridiculous body art has transformed me. These tattoos function as living mantras, daily reminders etched into my skin. Each morning when I look in the mirror, these two icons stare back, reminding me who I am and who I'm choosing to become.

The parts of myself I once hid now carry my most powerful intentions.

This transcends tattoos or home decor choices. It's about the profound shift that happens when we grant ourselves permission—permission to express, to expand, to exist beyond the boundaries we've accepted.

I wonder what might change if we all handed ourselves this permission slip more often?

What if, instead of asking "What will people think?" we asked "What do I truly desire?"

What if we stopped waiting for someone else to tell us it's okay to be fully, gloriously ourselves?

What would you do if you gave yourself permission to just do things? How would it change the way you show up—for yourself, for others, for this one wild and precious life?

Perhaps the most radical act isn't what we choose to do with that permission. Perhaps it's the simple act of granting it to ourselves in the first place.