Flying Without Permission

Captured by the distinguished photographer Mitchell Royel. Drawing inspiration from Puritan culture—an exploration of constraint and liberation, tradition meeting contemporary expression. A visual meditation on the layers we shed, both material and metaphorical, when we choose authenticity over conformity.

Now playing: Chainless - Tinashe (Official Music Video, YouTube)

A fable for the brave ones who dare to feel it all

There we were. Row G, seats 14 and 15. The auditorium smelled like old velvet and teenage anticipation, and the lights hadn’t even dimmed yet, but I could already feel my ribcage doing that thing—that hummingbird-trapped-in-a-Mason-jar thing.

Because they were three rows ahead.

We’d been orbiting each other for weeks. Hallway glances. Cafeteria geometry. That specific kind of mathematics where you calculate exactly which route to your locker will “accidentally” intersect with theirs. We were scientists of longing, and tonight—tonight—we were both here for the spring play, and the universe was either conspiring for us or laughing at us. Maybe both.

The Moment Everything Shifted

Intermission hit like a permission slip from destiny.

The lobby. The crowd. The terrible punch in plastic cups that tasted like somebody’s grandmother’s church social, and then—there. Eye contact that lasted three seconds too long to be casual. A smile that said I see you seeing me.

“Hey,” they said, and it was just one syllable, but it landed in my chest like a key turning in a lock we didn’t know existed.

We talked about nothing. Everything. The play (which we’d both already forgotten). The lighting (weird). The way the lead actor kept forgetting to project. But really, we were talking in a different language entirely—the one underneath the words, where our souls were having a completely separate conversation about recognition and electricity and oh, there you are.

That’s when it happened.

The chainless moment.

When we dropped the performance of cool. When we stopped pretching we weren’t absolutely magnetic to each other. When we let ourselves be seen—awkward laughs and nervous hand gestures and that raw, unfiltered thing that happens when you realize someone else’s frequency matches yours.

What First Love Teaches Us (Even Decades Later)

We forget that vulnerability is the actual superpower. That night taught me that the bravest thing we can do is let someone see us mid-flutter, mid-hope, mid-terrified that this feeling might not be mutual. Spoiler: it usually is.

We learn that timing is just another word for trust. We could’ve stayed in our separate orbits forever, but someone—one of us—had to say “hey” first. First love teaches us that sometimes the universe needs our participation.

We discover that crushes are just our intuition doing reconnaissance. That pull? That magnetic thing? It’s our inner wisdom saying, This person has something to teach you about yourself. Even if it doesn’t last forever (and most don’t), it lasts perfectly for exactly how long it needs to.

We remember what it feels like to be chainless. Before we learned to protect ourselves. Before we built the armor. Before we decided that being “too much” was something to apologize for. First love reminds us what it feels like to want without strategy, to hope without backup plans, to feel without footnotes.

The Fable Part (Because Every Truth Needs a Story)

There once was a bird who was born with invisible chains around its wings—chains made of what if and not yet and maybe someday. The bird could fly, technically, but never very high. Just high enough to be functional. Just high enough to be safe.

One day, the bird went to a gathering in the forest (a performance, let’s say—the squirrels were doing Shakespeare, and it was honestly kind of brilliant). And across the clearing, there was another bird. And when their eyes met, something impossible happened.

The chains dissolved.

Not because the other bird had magic, but because in that moment of true seeing—of being witnessed without judgment, without expectation—the first bird remembered that the chains were never real to begin with. They were made of fear dressed up as wisdom. Caution masquerading as maturity.

The two birds didn’t fly off into the sunset together. (This isn’t that kind of fable.) But the first bird never forgot what it felt like to be chainless. And from that day forward, they chose to live unshackled—not because love guaranteed anything, but because feeling fully was the whole point of having a heart to begin with.

What We Know Now (That We Wish We Knew Then)

The crush isn’t the destination. It’s the wake-up call. It’s our heart tapping us on the shoulder saying, Remember me? Remember what it feels like to WANT something? To FEEL something? To care about something beyond your comfort zone?

We don’t need permission to feel. Not from them. Not from our friends. Not from some cosmic authority on whether we’re “ready” or “worthy” or “cool enough.” We just need permission from ourselves.

The electricity is the point. Whether it turns into a relationship or just remains that one perfect night in the auditorium lobby with terrible punch—we got to feel fully alive. We got to remember that we’re not just walking through life. We’re participating.

For Us, Right Now

So here’s what we do with this:

We stop waiting for the perfect moment and realize we’re in it.

We let ourselves have crushes—at 15, at 45, at 75—because they keep us young in the only way that matters: they keep us feeling.

We practice being chainless in small ways every day. We send the text. We make the eye contact. We say “hey” in the lobby of our lives, even when it’s scary.

And we remember that every connection—every electric moment of true seeing—is teaching us how to love without armor, how to want without shame, how to be fully human in a world that’s constantly trying to make us smaller.

The chains were never real, beloved.

They never were.

Now go. Feel everything. Be chainless.

-Mitchell+Ryder