Why, as a fully grown adult, is there sometimes a lingering feeling we need to get permission? The thinking mind knows it’s ridiculous, yet somewhere in the ethers we feel the need to check if it’s OK? OK, with who? With what?
Ah, maybe it’s just me?
I am a not-yet-fully-reformed people pleaser and a 9 on the Enneagram - which means I want everyone aroun…