Episode 4 — The Feeling You Forgot You Were Allowed To Have

Have you forgotten what it feels like to just be? Not performing, not producing, not holding it all together — just free?

In this episode, Cherie gets real about the moment joy gets switched off — and why most of us have been living without it for longer than we realize. Drawing from her own story of losing herself at 16 and a TikTok challenge that reminded her what alive actually feels like, this episode is a gentle, honest invitation back to yourself.

This isn't about spa days or self-care checklists. This is about the joy that lives in your body before your brain talks you out of it. The kind you had before someone taught you it was inconvenient.

You'll hear:

• Why real joy isn't something you find — it's something you remember
• How perfectionism quietly steals your freedom
• A grounding practice to help you reconnect with the version of you who used to dance just because the music was playing

If you've felt disconnected, lost your sense of play, or quietly stopped being yourself — you're not broken. She's still in there. And this episode is for her.

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I’m Cherie Faus-Smith, and I create bold, safe & supportive spaces where women are heard; not fixed.

Transcript

Speaker 0:07

Hey sassy friend! Let me tell you something because around here we don't skip the important parts. I have been thinking about this episode all week, and honestly, I could not wait to get here with you today. So grab whatever you're drinking, get comfortable, and let's go. Okay, so picture this. It's 2019, and I know absolutely nothing about TikTok, like nothing. And my business coach at the time throws out this challenge show up every day for 30 days. And I thought, okay, fine, I can do that. And then I just started dancing. No strategy, no offer, no call to action, just me, a random song, and apparently zero shame. And women loved it. They were showing up every day just to watch. And someone even told me it brought them joy just to see me dancing around like that. And then unfortunately, two colleagues, people I respected, said, "Cherie, you're a coach. You're not selling anything. This isn't the right image." And just like that, I stopped. I've thought about that moment a lot since then because here's what I know now that I didn't fully understand then. They didn't take my joy. They just reminded me of an old lesson I had already been taught. Sit down, be appropriate, make it make sense, make it productive. And that lesson, it didn't start with them. It started a long time before that. And I think for a lot of you, it did too. So today we're talking about joy, real joy, the kind you had before you learned it made people uncomfortable. So let's talk about what joy actually is, because I think we've been sold a counterfeit version for a really long time. We have been told joy is a bubble bath, a glass of wine at the end of a hard day, a vacation you saved up for, a checked-off to-do list. And listen, I'm not knocking any of those things, but that's not what I'm talking about today. I'm talking about the joy that lives before your brain gets involved, the kind that shows up in your body first, in your chest, in your feet, in that thing that happens when a song comes on and every single part of you just wants to move. That joy. The joy that doesn't need a reason, doesn't need an audience, doesn't need to make sense on a spreadsheet or fit inside someone else's idea of who you're supposed to be. That joy. And here's the thing about that joy. Most of us haven't felt it in a really long time. And it's not because we're broken, it's not because we're too busy or too tired or too old. It's because somewhere along the way, we were taught that it wasn't safe to have it. When I was 16 years old, I got pregnant. And I really would love for you to hear what happened next. Not because I need you to feel sorry for me, but because I think a lot of you are going to recognize something in this story. The moment my parents found out, the joy left the room. Not gradually, not gently, it just poof left. And what replaced it was disappointment and shame. The very clear and very loud message that I had messed up, that I had let people down, that the girl who made everyone laugh, who performed in front of thousands, without a single nerve in her body, who was meant for all of it, that girl needed to sit down now. You're going to be a mother. You need to be serious. You need to grow up. And underneath all of that, the thing that was never quite said out loud, but was felt in every single room. You embarrassed us. I was given an ultimatum. Stay home, but the father of my baby wasn't allowed there, or move in with his family. I chose to move in with his family. His father was an abusive alcoholic, and I ended up having a miscarriage. And when I eventually came home and graduated high school, I had completely lost myself. Not just my joy, me. The girl who could make a whole room laugh without even trying. The girl who stood in front of thousands that felt nothing but alive. The girl who just knew she was meant to be seen. She had now learned to be invisible. And I share this not to sit in the pain of it, because trust me, I've done all of that work. I share this because I want you to think about your moment. And maybe it wasn't a pregnancy. Maybe it was a divorce, a failure, a dream you had to let go of, a version of yourself that someone important told you was too much, too loud, too silly, too free. Maybe it was even smaller than that. A look across the room. A, that's not realistic. A silence where there should have been celebration. However, it happened, there was a moment. A moment when the dancing stopped. Who were you before that moment? Not who you became after, not who you learned to be, not the version of you that figured out how to survive and hold it all together and show up for everyone else. Who were you before? Because she didn't disappear. She just went quiet. She learned that joy made people uncomfortable, that her freedom was inconvenient, that her laughter was too loud, and her dreams were too big, and her dancing was, well, it wasn't selling anything, was it? So she tucked herself away and she's been waiting ever since. And maybe you're listening to this and thinking, "Cherie, I don't even know what joy feels like. I wouldn't recognize it if it showed up at my front door." I hear you. For some of us, it was never fully safe to feel it in the first place. So it's not that you lost it, it's that you never got to fully have it. And that is not your fault. But here's what I want you to know. Your body remembers even when your mind doesn't. It's in there, quiet and waiting. And we're going to find it together. Here's what I know about joy. Real joy. After everything I've walked through and everything I've watched women walk through, joy is not something you find. It's something you remember. It doesn't live in a spa day or a girl's trip or a new pair of shoes, although, girlfriend, I am never turning down a good shoe moment. It lives in the moment before the doubt arrives. It lives in the song that makes your body move before your brain says, not here. It lives in the laugh that comes from so deep it surprises even you. It lives in the version of you that used to dance just because the music was playing. And here's the thing about perfectionism, because we do have to talk about this. Perfectionism is joy's most patient enemy. It doesn't show up loud, it doesn't throw things, it just quietly whispers. Not yet, not here, not like that. What will they think? Is this appropriate? Are you sure? Shouldn't you be doing something productive? And we listen. We have been listening for so long that we've started to mistake that voice for wisdom. It's not wisdom. It's a cage that learned to sound reasonable. And the little girl inside you, the one who used to just go without asking permission, she's been standing at the door of that cage for years, waiting for you to open it. Not someday, now. So the other day I went to Michael's crafts and I bought tutus, boas, megaphones, and silly socks. And I brought them home and I danced around. And you know what? I felt free. Not productive, not polished, not professional, free. And that version of me, the one in the tutu with the megaphone, that's not the silly version of me. That is the most me version of me. And I want that for you. Not the tutu necessarily, although I will absolutely send you one, but that feeling, the feeling of doing something just because every cell in your body says yes, and not waiting for anyone's permission to enjoy it. So here's what I would like to leave with you today. This is your permission slip. Not from me, not from anyone else, from you. The part of you that has been waiting so patiently for someone to finally just say, it's okay. You can put it down now. The pain that has been holding you down, the fear of what they'll think, the weight of disappointing someone who should have caught you instead. You can put it down. And I want you to do something for me. Maybe not today, maybe not this week, but soon. I want you to find some grass, real grass, outside under your feet. And I want you to take your shoes off and just walk in it. Feel the blades between your toes, feel the ground underneath you, solid and real and asking nothing from you. And then I want you to close your eyes and remember. Remember what it felt like to be young and outside with your friends, laughing at nothing, acting completely silly, not one single care in the world about what you look like or what anyone thought or whether any of it was productive. Remember her. And then I want you to twirl just once, just a small one, if that's all you've got right now. And as you do, I want you to take the deepest breath you've taken in a long time. Feel your lungs expand all the way, like they've been waiting for this too. And as you breathe out, release it. The shame, the fear, the years of feeling like you were too much or not enough, or a disappointment to someone who should have known better. Breathe it out into the grass and let the earth take it from you. That breath out, that's your freedom. But don't stop there because after every exhale comes an inhale, and that, that, my friend, is your joy. Feel it come in. Actually feel it. The air, the grass, the sun, the silly and the free and the alive, that feeling that just showed up in your chest before your brain had a chance to talk you out of it. That's not nothing, that's not frivolous, that's not irresponsible or inappropriate or unproductive. That is the most important thing you have felt in a long time. That is joy. And I want you to notice something. It was always there. It never actually left you. It was just waiting underneath all the heavy things you were carrying, waiting for you to put them down long enough to feel it again and then dance. I don't care if it's two seconds or two hours. I don't care if anyone is watching and honestly, let them watch. Let them take the photos. Let them post it because you know what they're doing, what they're going to see. They're going to see a woman who chose herself, a woman who remembered, a woman who finally, finally stopped waiting for permission to feel good in her own body and her own life. That woman is not embarrassing. That woman is not too much. That woman is not silly or irresponsible or unprofessional. That woman is joy. And she has been inside you this whole time, just waiting for the music to start. So go find your grass, sweet friend, and dance like the whole world needs to see it. Because they do. They really, really do. And that's where we'll land today. I hope something in this episode made you feel a little braver, a little clearer, a little more like you. Because that's all this is, really? Me sitting with you, reminding you that your voice matters, your feelings make sense, and you don't have to shrink yourself to fit into anyone else's comfort zone. Not anymore. If today's episode stirred something in you, share it with the woman who needs to hear it. She's out there waiting for exactly this. And if you're ready to be heard, not fixed, not coached, not advised, just heard, you know where to find me. I am Sherry Fowl Smith. This is Own Your Sass. And sassy friend, you belong here.