The Art of Saying No
There are seasons in our lives when joy becomes a kind of armor — not denial, but a deliberate way of tending what matters. Lately I’ve been thinking about how the small, ordinary choices we make shape the world around us. And one of the most powerful choices is also one of the simplest:
The art of saying no.
Small no’s.
Gentle no’s.
No’s that make space for a different kind of life.
No’s that carve room for what really matters.
“Small no’s carve room for what really matters.”
Why It’s Hard to Say No
We’re trained from young to comply.
To be good.
Not to make trouble.
In schools, at work, even in our own families — we’re told that good people don’t rock the boat, that we should stay grateful, keep quiet, say yes even when it hurts.
Meanwhile, power keeps us distracted. Football scores. Celebrity scandals. The same old noise. Like Ray Bradbury warned in Fahrenheit 451:
“People don’t talk about anything… they all say the same things and nobody says anything different from anyone else.”
Psychologists like Brené Brown talk about boundaries not as walls, but as clear lines that protect what we value. Saying no is hard because it feels like rejection — we fear losing connection, approval, even safety. But Brown’s research shows that the people with the strongest relationships are often those with the firmest boundaries. They know where they end, and someone else begins.
Sociologist Erving Goffman, in his work on “role expectations,” wrote about how society scripts us. We’re rewarded for playing the part — the agreeable worker, the smiling host, the “good” student — and punished when we step outside it.
Saying no isn’t just personal.
It’s refusing a role we were told to accept without question.
And so we keep going. Exhausted. Dreaming of another life — but afraid to risk it.
The First Big No
I’ve said no many times. But one changed everything.
I was working full-time, pregnant with my third child, raising two young daughters. Every morning I brought them to the sitter, pushed through the long days.
In my 12th week, right at the end of June, I lost the baby.
It was a shock.
And it woke me up.
I decided no new vehicle, no salary, no title was worth living that way. So I wrote to my principal. I said no. I stepped down to part-time and stayed home more. I raised my girls my way. Went to their school events. Made meals. Lived slower.
That one no changed our whole lives.
I did it again years later — after my divorce.
I said no to full-time hustle.
Started a photography business.
Chose a balanced life of part time work and running a business.
Diversified.
Reclaimed my creativity.
And again, just before the pandemic, I got sick. Landed in the hospital. Then came the masks, the visors, the endless rules at school. It felt like a prison.
So I said no again.
I took an early retirement. Opened Teach for Hire, my second business. Built something of my own.
These no’s weren’t acts of withdrawal. They were acts of reclaiming — like small personal rebellions that changed the shape of my life.
A Life That Fits
After all that, I moved to Québec. Bought a beautiful old house on Île d’Orléans. Renovated it. Invited friends and family. Built community.
But after a year and a half, I realized… I’d recreated a life I already knew. A role I already knew.
When I started commuting to Québec City for a new part-time teaching job, I realized I was spending my life on the road again.
So I made another hard decision.
Sold the house.
Moved into the city.
Rented a beautiful apartment within walking distance from school. Then, just recently, I was sent a curve ball and found myself in a beautiful space, a big old mansion even closer to school, this time with a yard for Buddy and Abby and a space for a small art studio. I said no to a guest room. This space is perfect and it fits our lifestyle. My kids and guests can sleep on the couch or on a pullout mattress.
This life — downsized, simpler, more free — feels like the right kind of no. A no to excess. A yes to trying something new.
I think about my life now, simplified, where I can walk to school, teach a class, and head back home for lunch and a walk with Buddy. I can take time to chat with neighbours, to go to a café, to sit in a park and people watch.
Things are less rushed. I don’t have as much stuff — but I have more freedom. I can enjoy the good things more: conversations, music, making food, writing, reading, and life.
And I think that’s something our world needs right now — to see that saying no isn’t always loss. Sometimes it’s the first step toward a life that actually fits.
The Pandemic’s Quiet Refusal
During the pandemic, millions of people started saying no to the grind. Some refused to return to exhausting, underpaid jobs. Some began “quiet quitting” — doing their work well, but no longer letting it devour them.
It was like a collective exhale.
A brave reclaiming of time, of dignity, of life.
History is full of these quiet refusals. Rosa Parks’ “no” to giving up her seat wasn’t loud or violent — but it sparked a movement. In 1917 New York, working-class mothers led the “milk strikes,” refusing to buy overpriced milk and forcing the price down so their children could eat. In 1975, 90% of women in Iceland went on strike — they didn’t go to work, cook, or take care of children that day — to demand gender equality.
These weren’t symbolic acts.
They were turning points.
And they began with ordinary people saying: no more.
Even after the Black Death, entire communities refused to return to the same feudal labour conditions — forcing landowners to raise wages and improve living standards.
If we could do that under pressure…
what might we choose if we did it consciously?
What No Could Look Like
I think about how these small no’s ripple.
One neighbor refuses to spray pesticides — and the bees return.
One teacher says no to doing excessive work at home, and finds balance.
One shop owner says no to single-use plastics — and customers adapt.
None of these feel world-changing in the moment. But they change the air we breathe.
No doesn’t always have to be dramatic. It can be deeply practical:
Not buying from companies that exploit.
Turning off your phone and going for a walk.
Saying, “No homework tonight — we’re having dinner.”
Choosing part-time work — and more laughter.
Imagine this:
Small homes wrapped in gardens.
A village café. A local bakery.
Rail lines instead of traffic jams.
Neighbors who know each other.
A life not of isolation — but connection.
Not burnout — but breath.
That’s not backward.
That’s the future, if we choose it.
The Voices Who Guide Us
Toni Morrison once said:
“The function of freedom is to free someone else.”
Freedom isn’t just what we claim for ourselves — it’s what we pass along.
Rumi asked:
“Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?”
The door isn’t always physical. Sometimes it’s the habits, expectations, and fears we’ve accepted as unchangeable.
Einstein warned:
“The splitting of the atom has changed everything except our way of thinking.”
Our tools have evolved. Our pace has accelerated. But without changing the way we think — about community, about rest, about enough — we’ll keep racing toward the same walls.
Even Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise is a refusal — a quiet, unbreakable no to the world’s weight.
Research backs this up. Psychologist Robert Cialdini found that when people take one small, values-based stand, they’re far more likely to take bigger stands later — because they’ve already seen themselves as someone who acts.
These voices remind us:
the way forward isn’t always more.
Sometimes it’s less.
More human. More connected.
“The way forward isn’t always more. Sometimes it’s less — more human, more connected.”
Small No’s, Big Freedom
I said no many times.
And each one brought me closer to a life I actually want.
So try one small no this week.
Say no to burnout.
No to guilt for resting.
No to spending to numb.
And yes — to breath.
To space.
To joy.
A Quiet Dare
One day, we may need to say bigger no’s — to injustice, to cruelty, to indifference.
But we begin here — in the gentle practice of making space.
Of saying: this matters more.
Dance on shards.
Say no, firmly but kindly.
And plant something luminous in its place.
That’s how we stay human.
That’s how we prepare for everything braver we’ll build next.
“Dance on shards. Say no, firmly but kindly. And plant something luminous in its place.”
Reflection Questions
When was the last time you said no to something that was draining you?
What small no could you say this week to create more space for yourself?
How do you want your life to feel — and what needs to go to make room for that?
