Permission to Speak

There is a story inside you that no one but you can tell

The epiphany began with a phone call.

Or rather, with the lack of a phone call.

My appointment was with a VP of Marketing. He was also a friend of sorts, which is why I waited so long for him to call, and why I forgave the unanswered texts, the unreturned emails.

The carrot he dangled in front of me was the promise of a job as creative director. “I’m building a team of mavericks and creatives, and I want you to lead them,” he said.

Didn’t hurt that the job was in Vancouver B.C., so it would tick two boxes on my wishlist: level up in my career, and live as an ex-pat. So I kept checking my phone and checking my phone and checking my phone until more than one of my friends said, “ENOUGH!”

“Why,” they asked, “are you letting this guy string you along? This is ridiculous! If anybody else tried ghosting you like this, you’d shut it down right away. So why are you waiting?”

With the answer came the epiphany: I was waiting for permission.

I was waiting because that’s what I had done my entire life, what I had been taught to do since I was small. But until that precise moment, I hadn’t realized it wasn’t a phone call I was waiting for.