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No is new to me. Until recently, it wasn’t something I often said. I knew yes; hell, I yes’d my way through my twenties and thirties the way undergrads drink themselves through college. I committed, I overcommitted and then I resented. Yes was safe; yes was easy. When I didn’t yes, I maybe’d, then gained the requisite guilt when I inevitably postponed or cancelled. No, I didn’t know No. Until recently.
This summer I suffered an unexpected, devastating loss. I couldn’t make it a few hours without crying; I learned No out of necessity. Spending all day trying to not cry in public, I couldn’t face the agony of doing so in my evenings and weekends. So I cancelled plans, engagements, and turned down invitations. No was what I could do; it was all I could do. I retreated into my house, into my self, and sat with my grief. It was hard and awful and I wanted to crawl out of my skin most days. No allowed me to hur
And one day, months into my loss, I made it through a day without tears. Then another. And as my spirit slowly returned, I found myself wanting to see friends again. To spend time with people I loved, possibly even meet new ones. No gave me myself back, and what remained in my new self was the ability to say No.
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