The Permission I Never Gave

Confidently sporting a chic all-black ensemble, accented by stylish buckled boots and a sleek watch.

I wish my parents had asked me first—asked if I even wanted to be here. How strange it is, that two people made a decision 23 years ago, and now I’m the one standing in the crossfire of choices they set in motion. They gave me life, but not the manual.

No one warned me that adulthood would be a constant storm of decisions. Every morning I open my eyes and the smallest question—What will I eat today?—feels like a trial. I’ve eaten more bowls of cereal than I care to admit, not out of love for the taste, but because cooking feels like a war I never signed up for. My fridge has become a graveyard for good intentions—vegetables and fruit slowly fading into silence in the shadows.

Sometimes I wonder—too late, of course—if I could sue them for dragging me into this without consent. But then I look at my “children,” the four-legged kind, and realize that in my own way, I’ve made the same choice for someone else. Life has a cruel sense of irony.

The truth is, I’ve never gotten over my fear of driving. I waited until I was 19 to get my license, and even then it felt like I was being hunted by the road itself. In Los Angeles, you don’t need a car. You walk, you ride the bus, you drift through the city like a shadow. And besides—cars bleed money. I still don’t understand how a freeway can be both “free” and yet cost me hours of my life, trapped in a line of steel and exhaust.

The chores never stop either. My bed demands to be made every morning like a petulant king. My kitchen conspires against me, dirtying itself in the night. Grocery bags rip. Floors collect dust. Everything decays faster than I can keep up.

It’s fall semester now, and the weight of school is pressing harder than ever. Some nights I stare at my ceiling and think, What if I just put on six-inch heels and worked the pole? The thought isn’t desperation—it’s rebellion.

And yet, between my frustrations, I’ve found small victories. My boyfriend helped me start my garden—a piece of quiet earth I can call my own. More projects are creeping onto my to-do list, and for once, the thought of more doesn’t scare me.

Maybe that’s what life is—a series of projects we never asked for, but somehow find ourselves building anyway.