I think about all the years I spent, in one way or another, waiting to be picked. Waiting to feel ready, which is the same thing wearing a different coat — because "ready" is just permission you're hoping to receive from a future version of yourself, and he's waiting on you. And what I eventually understood is this: the permission slip I kept waiting for did exist. It had existed the whole time. It was sitting right there. It was just blank where the signature goes.