I’m Allowed to Like My Life

Day 182 – May 24, 2026

I think one of the weirder things I’m learning is that I’m actually allowed to like my life. Not all of it.
Let’s not become ridiculous. There are still things I hate. Things I resent. Things I would absolutely return with a sharply worded note if the universe had a customer service desk and the courage to face me.

But still. I’m allowed to like my life. That shouldn’t feel revolutionary, and yet somehow it does.

Because I think when you’ve lived through enough pain, enough upheaval, enough weirdly expensive emotional plot twists, you can start to feel like enjoying your life is something you have to earn back slowly, like a suspicious bank restoring access to an account it froze for “unusual activity.”

And apparently my nervous system is that bank. Very strict. Very dramatic. Terrible customer service.

But today I kept noticing these little moments where I actually liked being here. In my apartment. In my body. In my routines. In my current weird little life with Roger and the coffee and the thoughts and the writing and the increasingly strong urge to protect my peace like it pays rent.

And that mattered.

Because liking your life after you’ve been through some shit is not simple. It can feel disloyal somehow. Like if you relax too much, enjoy too much, settle too comfortably into a good moment, you’re forgetting something important. Like pain leaves behind this rude little hall monitor that keeps whispering, don’t get too comfortable, bitch, remember what happened.

I hate her. And she’s wrong. Because remembering what happened does not mean I have to refuse joy.
It does not mean I have to stay emotionally kneeling forever just to prove I took the damage seriously.
It does not mean I have to treat pleasure, peace, beauty, or contentment like suspicious activity just because life has been ugly before.

No.

I am allowed to like what I’ve built. I am allowed to like who I am becoming. I am allowed to like the softness, the beauty, the humor, the womanhood, the standards, the atmosphere, the dog, the weird little rituals, the entire tender and slightly unhinged ecosystem I’ve made around myself just to keep going.

That counts. That matters. That is not shallow.

Honestly, I think liking your life might be one of the bravest things a person can do after pain. Not because it’s hard in the glamorous sense. Because it’s hard in the intimate sense. Because it asks the body to unclench a little. It asks the heart to stop treating every good thing like bait. It asks you to believe that maybe this moment, this room, this cup of coffee, this laugh, this version of yourself, does not need to be justified by suffering before you’re allowed to enjoy it.

That’s huge.

Roger, naturally, has no problem liking his life. He wakes up every day with the full confidence of a creature who believes his existence is both cherished and correct. He likes his bed. He likes his toys. He likes his walks. He likes me at an almost medically impressive level. He sees no reason to be weird about any of it.

There is something almost healing in being around a being with that kind of uncomplicated devotion to joy. No guilt. No suspicion. No tiny inner committee debating whether delight is appropriate today.

Just yes. I like this. I want more of it. The end.

That’s wisdom, honestly.

And maybe that’s what today gave me. Not some breakthrough, not some glittering life lesson, just the quieter truth. I’m allowed to like my life. Not because it’s perfect. Not because it’s easy. Not because it hasn’t held ugliness.

But because it’s mine. And there is beauty here. And I fought too hard for too much of it to keep acting like enjoyment needs to clear fourteen psychological checkpoints before it’s allowed in the room. Absolutely not.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And me, finally a little less suspicious of the fact that I actually like being here.