Permission Slips “Soul-Up™

✨ Emotional Permission Slips™ for Families Who Grew Up Without Them 💔🧠🛠️

Because many of us never got the handbook on boundaries, love, or how to feel... and we’re still here, learning. Juntas (together).💫

We grew up with a script: “You have no rights. Just survive, obey, and keep the family looking good.”

That was the law in the house. The church. The school. A tripleta (three-hit combo) from hell. 🥵

We performed. We stayed silent. We cleaned up chaos and called it culture. 😔

Church? Uff. Taught us to fear stepping out of line. Supposedly, even our cat would go to hell. ⛪️ 🙀💦

Ay bendito (bless our hearts), some of us are still waiting for a bearded man in the clouds to say, “Mi’ja, now you're worthy.” 🧎‍♀️‍➡️

We searched. Hopped religions like buses in Chi-town 🚌 — chasing a God that didn’t punish or shame.

Instead we met the Gettcha God — a mix of Santa 🎅 and a tyrant dictator 👹. Checks a list. Finds us guilty. Drops lightning and vergüenza (shame).

That’s not sacred. That’s spiritual trauma in a robe.

So we broke up with him. 💔

He wasn’t our God. Just the version we were handed.

Home already felt like hell. Then came the spiritual IRS: demanding our quarters, our silence, our loyalty.

But even in the confusion, something inside whispered: “The God of our understanding™ is not that dude.”

This God? Funny. Fierce. Present. No middleman needed. 🌀 Meets us barefoot. Weepy. Loud. Beautiful.

We realized: we don’t need a permission slip to meet our Higher Self. 📝 Not from a cura (priest), bruja (witch), pastor, influencer, or stranger.

We don't need approval to cry, to dance, to heal, to write, or to take up space.

It flows. From realness. From soul. From nosotras (us). Así mismito (just like that). 🏝️

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