The Permission Slip You Didn't Know You Needed

Today, as I sat at my desk and reviewed my summer, I couldn't help but feel grateful. I often remind others to reflect and celebrate. So, I wanted to be a role model in real-time to show my process of reflection and gratitude.

Reflection is thinking back with analysis. It is a deeper awareness, but it doesn't have to take long and it doesn't have to be planned.

This moment wasn't planned.

The summer is nearing an end, and I am preparing for the Fall semester. Classes begin next week. I will teach Women in Leadership and Foundations of Qualitative Research. But sitting there, surrounded by syllabi and course materials, something shifted. Instead of the usual pre-semester anxiety creeping in—the mental list of everything I needed to prepare, the worry about whether my students would connect with the material, the perfectionist voice demanding I have every detail mapped out—I felt something unexpected.

Peace.

It happened when I picked up my coffee mug—the one with the chip on the handle that I refuse to throw away because it's perfectly imperfect. As I held it, I realized I wasn't rushing. I wasn't multitasking. I was just... present.

That's when it hit me: The practice is paying off— learning how to exist without constantly performing productivity.

For the first time in years, I had given myself permission over the summer to move slowly. To read books that had nothing to do with my research. To take walks without podcasts. To sit on my porch and watch the world go by without feeling guilty about the work I "should" be doing.

Here's the universal struggle every high-achiever, creative, and academic knows intimately: We believe our worth is measured by our output.

We've been conditioned to think that rest is earned, that reflection is a luxury, that slowing down means falling behind. We carry this invisible scoreboard, constantly tallying our accomplishments against some impossible standard of enough.

I've watched brilliant minds burn out trying to prove their value through exhaustion. I've seen creatives abandon their art because they couldn't separate their identity from their productivity. Hell, I've been that person—the one who wore busyness like a badge of honor while my soul felt like it was quietly withering.

The academic world is particularly brutal about this. We're taught that thinking deeply takes time, but then we're rewarded for churning out papers, managing impossible course loads, and saying yes to every committee. The contradiction is maddening.

What Summer Taught Me

This summer, I accidentally conducted an experiment in being human (laughable, right).

I didn't set out to "optimize my downtime" or "maximize my self-care routine." I just... stopped. I stopped treating every moment like it needed to produce something measurable.

Some days, I sat with my morning tea for an entire hour. Not because I scheduled it, but because I wanted to. I read novels that I was interested in (hello again, Walter Mosley). I had conversations that meandered nowhere and everywhere and reconnected with a few friends. I let my mind wander without a destination.

And you know what happened? My best ideas came during those wandering moments. The insights I'd been forcing all semester finally had space to surface. The creative solutions I needed for my fall courses and Sienna & Slate appeared while I was washing dishes or taking a walk.

The Radical Act of Reflection

Real reflection isn't another task to add to your productivity arsenal. It's not about optimizing your past to improve your future performance. It's about honoring your experience as inherently valuable, regardless of what it produces.

When I teach qualitative research, I tell my students that the most important skill they can develop is the ability to sit with uncertainty. To resist the urge to rush to conclusions. To trust that meaning emerges when we create space for it.

The same is true for our lives. We don't need to have everything figured out. We don't need to extract lessons from every experience. Sometimes, the gift is simply the awareness that we're here, we've survived, and we're still becoming.

Your Permission Slip

As we head into fall—whether you're facing a new semester, a new project, or just the familiar pressure to "get back to business"—I want to offer you the same permission I accidentally gave myself this summer:

You don't have to earn your rest. You don't have to justify your pace. You don't have to turn every moment into a lesson.

Your worth isn't determined by how much you accomplish or how fast you move. Your creativity doesn't have a schedule. Your insights don't follow deadlines.

What if, instead of asking "How can I be more productive?" you asked "How can I be more present?"

What if you trusted that slowing down isn't falling behind—it's finding your way?

What would you discover if you gave yourself permission to just... be?

I can't wait to see your response to this post if it resonates.