Your permission slip

I have a really vivid memory of being seventeen, standing in my kitchen wearing my Michel's Patisserie uniform, snotty crying down the phone to my boss because I was too sick to come in.

I'd already tried to push through. I'd gotten dressed, done my hair, told myself it wasn't that bad. But it was absolutely that bad. And now I was calling in sick and falling apart about it.

I wasn't crying because I was sick. I was crying because I felt like I'd done something wrong. Like calling in sick was a character flaw. Like the fact that someone might have to rearrange their afternoon because of me was somehow unforgivable.

I was a teenager. I had a fever. And I was apologising like I'd committed a crime against pastry.

Fast forward more than a few years to the last design studio I worked at before going freelance.

I had it written into my contract, actually written, in ink, on paper, signed by humans, that I could leave at 5pm on Tuesdays to teach my Zumba class. And without fail, every single Tuesday, my art director would make some comment just pointed enough to make me hover by my desk thinking, "maybe I should just stay and keep everyone happy."

It was in my contract. And I still felt like I was asking for a favour.

So I went freelance. Became my own boss. No more crying to managers, no more snide art directors. Problem solved, right? Yeah, no.

Within my first year I had this particularly painful client who wanted a logo. She asked for a revision, then another, then another. And I just kept going because I wanted to get it right. I wanted us both to be happy with it. I wanted to be the designer who didn't let her down.

By the time I was saving LogoConcept_V12.pdf, two things hit me at once: I was never going to make this woman happy. And I'd worked so many un-scoped hours that I was now earning less per hour than I used to make serving cakes at Michel's.

I'd left employment to be my own boss, and I'd somehow become an even worse one.

I don't tell you these stories because I've healed and evolved and now I set boundaries effortlessly from my throne of self-worth. I tell you because I think a lot of you have your own version of these stories. And I think they explain a lot about why boundaries with clients feel so bloody hard now.

We didn't just wake up one day and decide to be bad at boundaries. We were trained out of them.

If you're a woman who grew up in the 90s (no offence to anyone who doesn't fit this stereotype) but if you grew up in a house where someone else's mood was your responsibility to manage, where keeping the peace was more important than having a voice, where "being good" meant being invisible and agreeable... you didn't learn that boundaries were a healthy part of adult life. You learned that boundaries were dangerous. That they made people angry. That they made people leave.

So of course you flinch when you need to tell a client you're not available on Friday afternoon.

Of course your stomach drops when you need to push a timeline out.

Of course you'd rather just say yes, absorb it, and deal with the resentment later.

Because at least resentment is familiar. At least resentment is quiet. At least resentment doesn't risk someone thinking you're difficult.

I get it. I really do.

But here's the question I've started asking myself that's slowly, imperfectly, changing things for me:

In the list of people I'm trying to keep happy... where do I rank?

The client.
The client's stakeholder.
The project manager who sends emails at 9pm.
The person who wants a "quick call" during your lunch break.
The prospect who wants you to charge less for more.

Where are you on that list? Are you even on it?

Because if you're not on the list, or you're dead last behind everyone else's comfort, the boundary isn't the problem. The ranking is.

So here's your permission slip.

Not from me, because I'm not your boss or your mum or whoever first made you feel like your needs were an inconvenience. From you. To you.

Permission to not be available at the exact moment a client wants to talk, and let that be fine.

Permission to tell a client their project needs more time because the timeline has shifted, without writing a four-paragraph apology for it.

Permission to explain that yes, you could charge less, but you'd both be disappointed. Because charging less means cutting corners and doing a half-arsed job, and nobody's paying you to be half-arsed.

Permission to set the boundary and not spiral for three days afterwards wondering if they hate you now.

The boundary doesn't make you difficult. It doesn't make you unprofessional. It doesn't make you the person someone once made you feel like you were.

It just means you finally put yourself on the list.

And I'm proud of you for doing it.

Todays email was a little different. Different format, different timing, different day (Thailand time), and if it hit different, do me a favour and reply what hit home.