The astonishing simplicity of learning to say ‘no’

When I was 25, I went to work at a bakery in a small college town in the Midwest. I worked in the front and back of the house, making espresso shots at the bar and running into the kitchen to grab my (often burnt) sugar cookies from the oven.

My boss and I had agreed on a weekly schedule—I really wanted to be a writer and was trying to make time to work on my novel—but she always seemed to ask me to take another shift, or be late stay, or come early, and I found it hard to refuse. If I said no, I was afraid I would leave her in trouble, or that she would decide I wasn’t worth keeping on staff at all. (My skills in the kitchen hardly justified my presence.)

One afternoon I talked to my stepfather about it, expecting sympathy, and he only shook his head in vague amusement. Then he offered one of the best pieces of wisdom I’ve ever received: “She has the right to ask the question, and you have the right to say no.”

This was astonishing, both in its simplicity and in its radical reformulation. The requests that I had perceived as violations were in reality nothing of the sort; it was not only my right, but also my responsibility, to draw my own boundaries, rather than expecting someone else to draw them for me.

In my early twenties, I struggled to cancel my gym membership. I wondered if the young “membership manager” would be scolded by her boss if she didn’t meet her quota. thanks to me. And I always had trouble saying no to a drink (or a joint, or a sentence), which wasn’t just about wanting to get drunk or stay that way (although yes, of course, of course) – it also had to be about wanting to get drunk. imagining the sting of shame or rejection the other person might feel if I refused.

What was so hard about saying no? Often it was the fear of disappointing someone, of not being able or willing to meet a certain need. But it was also often the fear of losing something forever – an opportunity, an opportunity, a connection. Each offer was a message that would self-destruct ten seconds after I rejected it, never to be seen again.

Almost every woman I knew had trouble saying no at some point. I felt a sense of identification at once rabid and tender, but I was also a little suspicious of all of us: had this become some kind of collective humblebrag? We were all sending signals about how much the world popular of us, how generous and giving were we all? It almost felt inappropriate – selfish even – to do that not difficulty saying no.

But it wasn’t just generosity that drove me. The inability to say no was intertwined with other things: a mercantilist desire to strengthen affection, gratitude, and opportunity, and a cowardly, self-centered fear that I would be destroyed by someone else’s pain or disapproval.

When one of my writing instructors recommended me for a teaching job shortly before I published my first collection of essays in 2014, I was so flattered that I didn’t even think about whether I wanted it. And when I got it, I was terrified to turn it down, afraid that not only would “they” be mad at me, but that the universe would punish me for my lack of appreciation.

My teacher, who helped me get this opportunity in the first place, was also the one who helped me understand why it was okay to turn it down: other opportunities would follow.

When I finally turned down the teaching position, I felt like a knot had been loosened inside me. But the next time it didn’t get any easier. As my career progressed, I got more and more opportunities – more invitations to speak, to teach, to read, to write a piece – and it still felt like it was a sign of ingratitude not to accept them all. to take.

Eventually I became completely exhausted. I collapsed in the middle of a movie theater and went to the emergency room in an ambulance. It turned out that I had a burst ovarian cyst and a long-term infection that had not yet been diagnosed. It felt like my body was telling me: stop.

When I got home from the hospital, in the quiet of my apartment, I decided to make something I called Noes’ Notebook. On each page I wrote down an opportunity I had turned down: a speaking engagement, a magazine commission, an invitation from a friend. Then I drew a line across the page. Below I wrote what saying no had made room for: more time with my partner. More time at home. More time to write. More time to call my mom and ask about her day, and tell her about mine.

Since I was a writer, it helped me to write down my own refusals in a notebook. It was as if through all these accumulations they could create a meaningful text: the story of learning to live differently.

As I collected more of these no’s, I discovered that even after I said the word, the world continued as usual. The people I was afraid of, would they disappoint? They were fine. The fear of losing something forever? It often came back, or something else did it.

But most of all, Noes’ Notebook has helped me see absence as a form of presence – instead of lamenting the ghost part of what I was not as I did so, I was able to recognize that each refusal made more of it possible to do something else.

Over the past decade, I’ve practiced saying no in every area of ​​my life: saying no to men I didn’t want to date for a second time. Gently interrupting students who were talking too much in class. I turned down speaking engagements because I didn’t want to be away from home.

In any case, I remind myself what the “no” makes room for: a better date, for myself and for the man who asked. More space for other students to participate in the class discussion. More time with my daughter. As they say in recovery it is always a matter of progress and not perfection.

The downside of saying no is that you say yes more fully and less reluctantly, because I don’t live like a stick of butter spread too thinly on toast.

I still think about my stepfather’s advice; Even though he is no longer alive, I feel close to him. And recently my daughter asked me to take her to an indoor water park that we love, in a huge shopping center in New Jersey. Even though I felt overwhelmed by my to-do list, I said yes: to water slides and fries and the swell of a wave pool under a huge glass roof. The space we shared was made up of noes; it was worth them all.

Leslie Jamison is the author of five books, most recently the memoir “Splinters: a different kind of love story.”