Aging Into Myself: A Permission Slip to Be Everything I Am
- Heather Garner
- May 11
- 3 min read
By Heather Garner
Age is a funny thing.
We glorify it when it means wisdom—professors, sommeliers, cheese, and wine. But we shame it when it reveals too much—wrinkles, injuries, hesitation, or a messy past. In youth, we’re often too naive to know what we don’t know. In age, we’re often too wise to forget what it took to survive. Somewhere in between is a quiet reckoning—the realization that the real prize in this lifetime isn’t perfection, it’s permission.
As a young girl, I watched the adults in my life crumble under the weight of addiction. I saw what drugs and alcohol did to people I loved. I watched the way pain twisted into meanness, how irresponsibility took root, and how numbness became a way of life. I swore I would never become like them. So at fifteen, I left. I shut them out. I shut everything out, really—except for ambition.
I moved fast, built a life at lightning speed, and proudly wore the badge of being “wise beyond my years.” But what I didn’t know then—and what only time could teach me—was that addiction isn’t the disease. It’s the symptom.
And despite all my swearing and striving, I had my turn in the spiral.
I never expected it. But when it came, there was a part of it that was oddly freeing. For the first time, I was uninhibited. I laughed harder. I danced longer. I had friends who didn’t care about appearances. We did the stupidest things—but we were present, raw, and real. It wasn’t sustainable, but for a brief moment, it was…beautiful.
Recovery, of course, was brutal. Finding my way back to responsibility felt like dragging myself uphill through sand. But I wouldn’t trade it. That chapter cracked me open. It taught me what leads someone to that edge. And it gave me compassion—not just for others, but for my younger self who was trying so hard to be good that she forgot how to be whole.
We live in a world that rewards conformity and punishes vulnerability. So we wear masks. We shrink. We adapt. We hustle. We hide. We push ourselves to achieve, to be liked, to be seen—but never too much. Never too loud. Never too real.
But here’s the truth I’ve aged into: the more we suppress, the more we suffer.

That deep yearning to succeed or travel or be fearless? It’s your soul seeking expression. And if you keep silencing it—if you keep abandoning the parts of yourself that don’t fit the mold—you’ll always feel a hollow ache. Not because something is wrong with you, but because something sacred is being ignored.
The journey home isn’t instant. It’s not a checklist or a glow-up. It’s the slow and sacred work of re-parenting yourself. Of holding the child inside you and saying, “You’re safe now. You don’t have to be small anymore.”
It’s about remembering that the parts of you that others didn’t understand—or even mocked—might just be your mission in disguise. What feels like “too much” is often exactly what the world needs more of. The flaws people picked at? They’re your edge. Your fire. Your fingerprint.
God already signed your permission slip. You just have to find the courage to use it.
And you know what’s wild? Every single human you meet is wearing a mask of some kind. So when you show up—fully, fiercely, and unapologetically YOU—you give them permission to do the same. Your authenticity becomes a lighthouse for others still lost at sea.
Today is Mother’s Day. A day we often use to thank the women who brought us here. So here’s a different kind of honor: Be everything you are. The strong. The soft. The misunderstood. The radiant. Honor your mother by living fully—because you are the living legacy of every pain she endured and every hope she carried.
You don’t owe the world perfection. You owe it your truth.
And your truth is timeless.
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