Permission to Proceed
An ode to the indomitable, incomparable bell hooks
There is a feeling, sometimes. And though I call it a feeling, I can’t quite put my finger on it or even describe it. I suppose that’s the purpose of a feeling, no? To describe the indescribable?
Let’s call this a feeling of a feeling — one you can’t explain, but it’s there, deep and in your bones. You feel it, but only you feel it. Were you a computer, you could plug someone in and they, too, might feel it.
But machines we are not.
This feeling-feeling is an experience I repeat with many new adventures. I consider myself an organizationist — someone whose life revolves around the notions of professional work life.
And, sometimes, I get that feeling-feeling as I make my way through various businesses and companies, most often experienced as the impending sense of lacking connections.
I can’t always (sometimes ever) explain why. It could be the people or the environment or the work itself. But, sometimes, the inability to forge a bond with a place is deep and heavy.
So it was, often, until I read bell hooks’ incomparable Where We Stand. For all its difficult, glorious words, one line in particular stopped me, cold, and sent me out of my body and mind:
“We tried to give this house memories, but it refused to contain them. Impenetrable, the concrete would not hold our stories.”
In hooks’ brief phrasing, I found a permission, of sorts. A permission to realize that I don’t need to feel badly about feeling untethered. A permission to not simply realize this, but to move on.
A permission to proceed.
hooks, of course, was not speaking of business or professional life. But that is where I felt it. And that is the purpose of strong words, in my view — to meet the recipient where they need it.
I have kept her permission with me anytime I feel the heavy feeling-feeling of uncertainty, and lean into it with care. I will always be grateful to her for that. For so many things, but especially that.
Rest easy, pathbreaking bell.






