You’re Allowed to Change Your Mind

Holiday cookies made by my daughters

At the weekend I was making gingerbread cookies with my daughters.

One of them was very clear from the start:
“We’re only making gingerbread men.”

We have over thirty cookie cutters in the drawer — snowflakes and stars and hearts and trees and bears and holly leaves and circles — but she was set.

This was a gingerbread mix. Therefore, it should be gingerbread men.
End of story. Until it wasn’t.

Her sister reached for a heart. Then a star. Then a snowman — which would clearly be better with white icing, obviously.

Quietly, the rules shifted. And so did her mind. She reached for a heart too. Then a star. Then — just like that — gingerbread men were no longer the plan.

And nobody panicked. Nobody accused her of inconsistency. Nobody reminded her what she’d said before. She simply… changed her mind.

And it struck me later how easily children are allowed to do that. How natural it is when you’re small. How ordinary it feels. How uncharged it is. And then something changes as we grow.

Somewhere along the way, changing your mind becomes something else entirely.

It starts to feel like:

• failure

• flakiness

• letting people down

• being unreliable

• not knowing yourself well enough

• disappointing someone

• going back on your word

We begin to worry:
What will people think? Who will I upset? What if I look foolish? What if I’ve already said yes? What if I’ve gone too far to change direction now?

So we stay. In choices that no longer fit. In plans we’ve outgrown. In versions of ourselves that feel too small or too tight or too quiet.

Not because they’re right — but because we once thought they were.

But the truth is, you are not required to remain loyal to a decision that no longer feels true. You are allowed to gather new information. You are allowed to feel differently. You are allowed to outgrow your own choices. You are allowed to notice that a path doesn’t feel right anymore.

Changing your mind doesn’t mean you failed. It often means you listened.

Sometimes to your body. Sometimes to your season of life. Sometimes to the slow truth that only shows up after you’ve lived inside a choice for a while.

Children change their minds without ceremony. They don’t explain it. They don’t justify it. They don’t build a case. They just move toward what feels right now.

And maybe we’re allowed to do that too. Not recklessly. Not without care. But with honesty. With self-respect.

With that quiet courage it takes to say:
“This isn’t quite right for me anymore.”

You’re allowed to change your mind. Even if you once meant it. Even if you tried hard. Even if other people were watching. Even if the old plan made sense at the time.
Especially then.

So if you find yourself feeling a quiet tug around a decision you once made — if something doesn’t sit the way it used to — this is your gentle reminder that you’re allowed to change your mind.

And if it’s something you’d like to talk through,
I’d be honored to listen.