Authority

I got a notification today—a letter arriving in my safe place. Hawaii.
How did they find me here?

It’s from the Service de Gestion Comptable—France’s government accounting department.
My heart jumped into my chest.
How do they know I live here?
AI.
It must be AI. What information is private anymore?

I never told the French my address. But of course, all they'd have to do is search my name online, read my social media, my website.
But my exact address!?

In France, I’m always terrified to open my mailbox. It’s usually some official letter asking me for taxes—for trash, a TV I don’t own, or something unpredictable.

Suddenly, the ease of freedom clenched.
I'm afraid to even write now. If this is public, anyone can look me up—everything’s on my Substack blogs. My whole life.
There are no secrets.
Can you be jailed for things you did as a teenager? For traveling from country to country without legal documents?

Even now, I feel thrown into the same category as those paranoid about their data being examined.
What once felt innocent is now public data for anyone—including the government—to track.

My whole life is public.
I shouldn't even be writing to you.
I should shut my mouth and close my laptop.
But here I am, risking it again.

It all comes down to the big question:
Do I have anything to hide?
Is there anything AI will flag me for?
If I even write this, am I a threat to authority?

Authority and I have never gotten along.

Growing up, I was completely controlled. Even my thoughts were patrolled—by God, materialized in the form of my father enforcing his rules.
I vowed no one would ever control me again.

Jobs? I didn’t last long.
I fought authority by smoking a six-foot bong on my second day at the alarm testing factory. Collapsed at my desk. Fired.

Job two: a plant nursery. I wanted to waft in plant energy.
Instead, I watered hundreds of monotonous rows.
I sabotaged it—slept in, then slept in more.
Told my boss I had to “save a friend in distress.”
She replied, “I don’t think this is going to work out.”
Day two.

Job three: a coffee shop. I held it down for a month or two, until I took an impromptu trip to San Diego with my boyfriend. Claimed “family problems.”
Shoot. That didn’t pass go.

I moved to San Francisco at 19. There were more:
A tea shop (accused of stealing—not true, but I did give myself wild discounts).
A diner (I was a terrible server but a sweet girl. Spent all my tips on drugs and dancing).
I quit that job to work with two girlfriends at an Italian restaurant: a Brazilian, an Italian, and me.
We swapped shifts like no one’s business. The poor boss was exasperated, but we were charming.

I abandoned the world of authority figures when I moved to Europe at 20 and worked for myself—busking, modeling, teaching yoga, performing.
Done with the “normal job” world.

Twenty years later, I tried on the employee outfit again.
At 39, I returned to San Francisco after my European stint, $1000 in my pocket.
I got a server job at a fancy seafood restaurant in Sausalito. Tasted all the dishes and wines during training—and I left after 3 weeks.
I just had to go see this guy I had just met in Brazil.
I knew I was leaving when I first got hired.

I felt terrible.
So terrible, I vowed: I wouldn’t lie again.

After Brazil (turns out I wasn’t meant to live my romantic dream on a farm forever with that man), I went back to SF and got another server job in Point Reyes.
No résumé required. Just a raspy:
“Are you good?” from the owner.
“YES,” I answered.

Upscale, artsy, eccentric. I lasted almost a year.
I even managed to take off four times a year to visit my son in France.

That restaurant could be a film.
Three flash moments:

Forget silverware? Risk a plate flying across the kitchen.
The other waiter talks dirty to you every time you input an order.
Dessert? Only the boss can make it—buffalo milk ice cream, olive oil, salt. She’s often gone. Interrupt her, and face the rage.

Our paychecks? Totally random.
Despite computerized tip totals, the boss decided what we got.
Midnight: sealed envelopes, handwritten checks.
Less than expected, but it was fine dining—tips were still good, we held our tongue.

Until Thanksgiving.
I worked a double shift. Tips showed over $1500- it was a good day.
My check? $700.
I asked for clarity.
I’m one of those annoying types—I need logic.
Choice in my bones.

Myt boss screamed:
“You ruined Thanksgiving! You have $700, how could you!?”
I wasn’t invited back.

No one else dared speak up to authority.
I do.
I don’t just bend over and do what I’m told.
I’ve come to terms with it.

I work better on my own.
I set my own schedule. I don’t have to beg for time off.
I am my own authority.

It comes with responsibility.
No one fires you if you don’t get to work.
No one promotes you either.
No monthly paycheck.
I’ve never had one.

I don’t understand how people spend 40 hours a week doing something they don’t like, just to have time to do what they do like.
Time is precious. That blows my mind.

Entrepreneurship is hard.
You hustle before you harvest.

If I didn’t do what I do, there would be a gaping hole in me—searching desperately for a place to pour the fuel and energy of life into.
I get to do that. So technically, it isn’t work in the classical sense.

It’s not exactly play either—play seems to imply doing something with no intended outcome, no particular direction.
It implies presence and fun, which I love and do, but the focus, motivation, drive, and purposeful passion all seem to be a-missing.

I’d call it PORK.
A combination of the words play and work.
No, that won’t work.

I could call it WAY.
A combo of work and play… in a way. Ha.
Doing my WAY.
I do it my way, and the song comes drifting into the background…
I did it my WAY.

Yes. I did. That’s right.
No protocol. No degree. No status quo.
My WAY.

Yes—so how do I say that in a sentence?
“Hey, I’m busy from 7–10 doing my WAY.”
Makes me laugh.

But also: that’s it.
I did it my way.

So, the letter from France.
I paused a few days before finishing this.
Turns out—it was just the trash service asking for €200.

I had given them my address because they refused to email me, and I was sick of late notices piling up in my French mailbox.
I’ve never been so relieved to pay €200 for four tiny trash bags per year.

Still, I worry.
I hear stories of people being stopped at the airport, forced to hand over their phones so they can find out if you’re a “threat.”
Refuse, and you’re denied entry.
Where did our freedom go?

I used to think I had nothing to hide.
Now I wonder how it could be used against me.
I’ve always maneuvered around the rules.
Now? They can know everything.

And who is they?
Government. Tax agencies. Advertisers.
Anyone who wants to target you.

Suddenly, we all feel like potential criminals.
That dumb thing you did in college? Could come back.
Thought you dodged a tax? Think again.

I’m not trying to amplify fear—we have enough of that.
I’m trying to be real.
We need to be aware of what we put into the data box.
I’ve given it enough already.

And yet… today, nothing’s wrong.
I wake up and go to bed free.

When I worry, I think of my Plan B. That helps me relax.
One of my life strategies has always been:
“What’s the worst that can happen?”

If I can make peace with that, I can move forward.

So maybe I pay extra taxes.
Choose France or the U.S. if immigration gets weird.
Renew my Canadian passport.
I could escape the collectors and live on a desert island without a phone.
Live in a van again and sell balloon animals?
Oh wait—I already did that.

Getting okay with the worst-case scenario helps.
I know for some of you, it could be much worse.
I don’t mean to sound like I don’t have a heart for others’ tribulations.
It’s not okay…

But what if instead of shrinking in fear, we live fully—spread goodness—and remember that we’re resilient?

We can get creative when the system says we can’t.
Choice is our anchor.
Agency keeps us from feeling powerless.

Even if rights are slipping away—
We can still choose what we share, how we respond, how we live.
If speaking out makes us a threat, do we still choose to speak?

These are real questions.
But do not lose your authority. Or your power.

Even if the walls feel like they’re closing in—
look for the cracks, the windows, the trap doors.

And one more thing:
Fuming or despairing won’t help unless you use it as fuel.
Your revolution might be this:

To live.
To love.
To open your heart.
To fight for what’s at risk of being lost.

I remove the othering.
The fear.
The junk.
And I live more—that’s my resistance.
That’s my revolution.

You still have authority over your mind—even if she’s a wild, untamed horse.
Get to know her.
Tame the part that pulls you down unhelpful paths.

It’s a daily practice.
Where do I focus?
How do I stay free?

Now I sound like a preacher.
But whatever—do what you want.
You are your own authority.

Don't listen to me...

In the meantime. I’m well. Life still smiles at me in many different forms.
And I wish you well. Carly