I Finally Said No – And Lived to Tell the Tale

I Finally Said No – And Lived to Tell the Tale

Let me tell you something miraculous, something that deserves fireworks, cake, and a commemorative plaque in bronze.

I said no.

Yes, you read that right. I, a lifelong serial people-pleaser, a polite Canadian who’s been conditioned since birth to apologize when someone else bumps into me, finally looked someone in the eye, took a deep breath, and said the sacred, elusive words:

“I'm afraid I don’t have the time for that right now.”

And then I didn’t burst into flames.

I didn’t faint, cry, or spontaneously combust from the sheer force of uncomfortable self-respect. In fact, I survived. I thrived. I made tea and went on with my day, though I did momentarily feel like I’d just told someone I eat puppies for breakfast.

Let me back up a little.

For years—decades really—I’ve been the go-to gal for favors, errands, quick edits, last-minute "can-you-just-do-this-little-thing-for-me"s. People would ask, and my mouth, entirely independent of my brain, would immediately say, “Of course!” while my soul quietly withered and my to-do list screamed in protest.

Because that’s what nice people do, right?

We say yes. We help. We smile. We suffer in polite silence and then mutter dark incantations into our coffee mugs while wondering why we agreed to make forty cupcakes, format someone's resume, AND babysit their bearded dragon named Steve—all in one weekend.

But something changed. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s wisdom. Maybe it’s the fact that I now keep a spreadsheet of my commitments and the cells were turning red with panic. Whatever it was, I paused, checked in with myself (a new concept for me), and realized:

I didn’t have the time.
I didn’t have the energy.
And I didn’t actually want to do it.

Cue the gasp. Somewhere in Canada, a polite gasp echoed through the maple trees.

But instead of saying yes and plotting my escape via underground tunnel, I tried something different. I opened my mouth and said:

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time for that right now.”

There was a beat of silence. My heart did a jazz solo. And then… the person nodded. Said, “No problem!” and carried on living their life without any apparent trauma. They didn’t unfriend me. They didn’t send a carrier pigeon of guilt. They just… accepted it.

And that’s when the aftershocks hit.

First: guilt. Immediate, full-bodied, "I'm a terrible person" guilt. I even drafted an apology text ("So sorry again for saying no. I hope your bearded dragon finds another sitter. Maybe he could learn independence?").

But then something wild happened. That guilt was replaced by something else.

Relief.

I didn’t have to cram another thing into my schedule. I didn’t have to curse my own existence while baking cupcakes at 11 PM with flour in my hair. I could just… enjoy my evening. Take a walk. Pet my dog. Write a chapter. Breathe.

It was liberating.

Look, I know there are seasoned boundary-setters out there shaking their heads like, “Oh sweet summer child, we’ve been doing this for years.” But for me? This was Everest. This was the moon landing. This was saying no without following it up with a 14-minute explanation, three compliments, and an offer to buy them lunch instead.

So here’s what I’ve learned: Saying no doesn’t make you mean. It makes you honest. It makes you sane. It makes you a better version of yourself because you’re not running on empty and low-key resenting Steve the lizard.

I’m not saying I’ll never say yes again. I love helping people. But now I’ll say yes when I mean it—when I can. Not because I’m scared to say no.

And if you’re still on the “yes to everything” train, may I suggest the occasional stop at Boundariesville. The weather’s lovely, and they have great snacks.

And best of all? Nobody minds if you say no to sharing them.

The Encyclopedia Was Our Google — And Dad Was Our Search Engine

You know you’re not a digital native when the word “research” makes you smell paper and hear the satisfying thud of a heavy book landing on a table. Welcome to my childhood, where curiosity was rewarded not with Wi-Fi, but with a stack of alphabetically-organized mystery bricks called encyclopedias . Let me take you back. The year? Somewhere in the analog era. The place? Our living room, where we had the entire Bertelsmann encyclopedia collection proudly displayed like it was the crown jewel of human knowledge. We didn’t just own knowledge—we subscribed to it. One glorious volume arrived each month, like an academic advent calendar for nerdy children. Volume “A” to “Z,” with deep sighs of longing in between. I swear, I still remember the day Volume “P” arrived. I rushed to the mailbox like I was expecting a letter from a secret admirer. Nope. Just got the lowdown on Photosynthesis and Peru. But did that stop me from doing a dramatic reading of it over dinner? No, it did not. M...

The Glamorous Life of a Writer (Or, Mostly Just Staring at a Screen)

There’s a persistent rumor floating around that writers live thrilling, adventure-filled lives. Perhaps it’s all the dramatic author portraits on book jackets—moody, windswept, staring off into the distance as if contemplating the fate of the world. Perhaps it’s the movies, where writers are always dashing off to Paris to write the next great novel in a charming café (suspiciously never interrupted by spotty Wi-Fi or overpriced croissants). I hate to break it to you, but real writing? Not quite so cinematic. In reality, my writing days mostly involve staring intensely at my screen, willing the words to appear through sheer force of will. Occasionally, I engage in deep philosophical debates with myself—such as whether my protagonist should turn left or right down a hallway (the fate of the fictional world depends on it). And let’s not forget the highly intellectual process of naming characters, which can take hours because somehow every single name I think of is either the name of ...

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

Thinkingdog Publishing

Search This Blog