Yes, I’m entitled.

Entitlement doesn’t always mean what people think it means. It’s not about demanding things that don’t belong to me or taking more than I deserve. No, my entitlement is different. It's the quiet recognition of my own worth—the understanding that I don’t have to apologize for wanting things that are mine. It’s the knowledge that I don’t have to share what is precious to me, be it a snack, a song, or a part of my heart that I’ve entrusted to only a select few.

Someone once told me that I’m too entitled to my opinion. I don’t know why those words stung, but they did. Maybe because it made me question if it’s wrong to believe in the power of my voice, to take ownership of my thoughts and my perspective. I don’t think it is. Not anymore. You see, opinions aren’t just opinions. They are reflections of who we are, shaped by our experiences, our values, our fears, and our loves. And when I speak, I speak with all of that. I speak with the depth of my life, my soul, and my truth. Why wouldn’t I be entitled to that?

The same goes for the things I love. I don’t like sharing snacks I love. You can call it selfish, but there’s something about having something that’s entirely mine—a piece of joy, a small comfort in a world full of demands and expectations—that makes me feel whole. I know it seems trivial. It’s just food, right? But it’s deeper than that. I don’t want to have to give up my favorite chips or my chocolate because, in a world where I often feel like everything is taken from me or expected of me, those little things are mine. They are my moments of pleasure, my small rebellions against the chaos of everything else.

And songs—oh, don’t get me started on songs. There’s a power in the music I listen to, something sacred in the melodies and lyrics that move through my soul. The songs I love, I keep to myself. The world doesn’t need to hear them. They’re too personal, too intimate. They are the soundtrack to my life, the songs that I have claimed for my own and allowed to wrap around me like a blanket on the coldest days. When someone else wants to listen to them, when they don’t understand why I cherish them so much, I feel an unexplainable resistance rise inside me. These songs are mine, they belong to me. They hold pieces of my heart, and if someone else shares in them without the understanding of the emotions and memories they carry, it feels like a violation.

 It’s not just about the things I’m unwilling to share with others. It's about the deeper sense of entitlement I feel toward everything that has shaped me, everything that makes me who I am. I am entitled to my space, my time, my silence, my thoughts. I am entitled to my own way of being, to my own rhythm, my own pace. This is my life, and I will not apologize for living it according to my own terms. People often think entitlement is a negative thing, something that implies arrogance or selfishness. But I’ve come to realize that entitlement, when it’s healthy, is about owning who you are and what you deserve.

And let me talk about blue. The color blue. I love it, always have. There’s something about it that speaks to me on a level I can’t fully articulate. It calms me. It grounds me. It represents the serenity I crave in a world that often feels too loud, too chaotic. I’ve always been drawn to its depth, its quiet strength, its vastness. It feels like the world is full of possibilities when I look at the ocean, or the sky, or a shade of blue that reminds me of peace. I’m entitled to feel that calm. I’m entitled to seek out that peace, to find it in the things that soothe me, in the things that make me feel anchored.

And then there’s her. My mother. I am entitled to the love and wisdom she has shared with me. It’s a bond I’ll never relinquish, a love that is mine, that I have claimed as part of my identity. She is my anchor, my guide, the one who shaped the woman I am today. Her sacrifices, her dreams, her pain, and her joy—they are part of me, woven into the very fabric of my being. I am entitled to honor her, to cherish her, to carry her legacy forward in everything I do. And yes, I will protect that love with everything I have, because it is mine. It’s our bond, and no one else can touch it.

Then, there’s writing. My writing. This is where I feel most entitled. It’s my refuge, my sanctuary, my voice. When someone tells me I should write differently or criticize my style, I feel this deep surge of resistance. Writing is my truth. It’s how I express everything I cannot say out loud, how I unravel the complexities of my mind and soul. No one else can dictate how I write or what I write about, because it’s mine. Writing is how I capture my thoughts, my experiences, my emotions. It’s my entitlement to share my truth with the world, even if it makes some uncomfortable. It’s my entitlement to express myself, to take up space with my words.

So yes, I’m entitled. And I’m not going to apologize for it.

I’m entitled to my opinions because they are mine, forged from my life, my experiences, my heart. I’m entitled to the things I love, the people I cherish, and the world I’ve created around myself. I’m entitled to the choices I make and the things I protect fiercely. I’m entitled to my voice, my silence, my comfort, and my boundaries.

And if someone doesn’t like it, if someone calls me selfish or arrogant, well, that’s not my problem. Because I know that this entitlement is not about greed, not about taking more than I deserve. It’s about owning who I am. It’s about claiming the parts of myself that make me feel alive, the parts of myself that make me feel whole.

I will never apologize for that. I will never shrink or dim my light for the comfort of others.

I am entitled to me. And that, is more than enough.

Neta.