Pick Your Nos, and Scratch Your Buts

I have been drowning in yeses for as long as I can remember.

Not swimming. Not floating. Drowning.

The weight of agreement, of obligation, of being the person who always finds a way—it’s like chains around my ankles, dragging me under. I say yes before I even hear the request. Before I let the silence settle long enough to consider the cost.

The answer’s yes—what’s the question?

It tumbles out like a trained response, a conditioned reflex. A sickness, really. A sickness disguised as generosity, wrapped in the cheap gold foil of being useful. It spills from my lips before my brain even loads the weight of what I’ve agreed to before I measure the distance, the sacrifice, the exhaustion waiting at the end of yet another promise I should never have made.

Yes, I’ll handle it.
Yes, I can fit that in.
Yes, I’ll shift, adjust, bend, twist, contort, and erase myself to accommodate your needs.

Yes—until my lungs burn from holding my breath until my priorities shrivel in the shadow of everyone else’s demands. Until I’m stretched so thin, I could snap with a whisper, yet still, they’ll ask for more.

And they will take.

Not because they’re cruel. Not because they intend to harm. Simply because I have taught them that I will always say yes.

I’ve spent a lifetime training the world to expect my availability, my willingness, my sacrifice. A currency I hand out without checking the balance in my own account. I’ve blurred the line between kindness and obligation so thoroughly that even I can’t always see where one ends and the other begins.

But I am learning.

I am learning that no is not a failure of character.

I am learning that pausing—breathing—before I answer is not selfish; it is self-respect.

I am learning that choosing my yeses carefully does not make me less generous but more intentional.

Because the truth is, I have spent too much time believing that my only choices were between drowning in obligation or vanishing behind refusal. That if I wasn’t everything to everyone, I would be nothing at all.

But somewhere between martyrdom and withdrawal, between depletion and detachment, there is balance.

And I am determined to find it.

I will not flinch at a request and blurt out the affirmative simply because it’s what I’ve always done.

I will take the time to measure my own capacity, to check my own reserves, to ask myself a question I should have been asking all along:

“Can I say yes without betraying myself?”

If the answer is yes, I will give it freely.

And if it is no, I will let it stand, without guilt, without apology.

Because I am not here to be everything.

I am here to be whole.

And then there are the buts.

Tiny, slippery things. Harmless at a glance, but corrosive at their core.

They aren’t loud. They aren’t forceful. They don’t arrive like wrecking balls, smashing through meaning with brute force. No, buts are far more insidious. They slip in unnoticed, carving escape hatches into our sentences, letting us retreat without admitting we’re running.

They let us appear present while inching away.
They let us sound engaged while disengaging.
They let us feel righteous while withholding.

“She’s a brilliant writer, but her style is too aggressive.”
(Which means I only respect her talent when it makes me comfortable.)

“I’d love to support your idea, but I just don’t have the time.”
(Which means I have the time—just not for you.)

“That’s a great plan, but what if it fails?”
(Which means I won’t risk my comfort on your conviction.)

Buts are termites in the foundation of truth. They gnaw at sincerity, hollowing out the meaning we pretend to stand on. They are the linguistic equivalent of smiling while shutting the door in someone’s face.

For a long time, I thought only yes and no mattered. That they were the only forces shaping the trajectory of a life.

I was wrong.

Yes, no, and but—they are all weapons.

And like any weapon, if wielded carelessly, they wound.

Sometimes the world.

Sometimes ourselves.

So, I’ve started picking my Nos with intention. Not as shields, not as swords, but as doors I close with purpose.

And I scratch my Buts before they warp what I truly mean.

Because but is a subtle assassin. A single syllable that sneaks in to limit, diminish, and dismiss. It pretends to be an innocent conjunction, but it’s a scalpel, slicing away the integrity of what came before it.

I don’t say, “I’d love to help, but I don’t have time.”
I say, “I won’t be able to help this time.”

I don’t say, “He’s a good man, but he’s not successful enough.”
I say, “He’s a good man.” Full stop.

Because anything that comes after but is a silent erasure.

I refuse to lace my words with quiet contradictions. I refuse to let hesitation masquerade as wisdom. I refuse to pollute my honesty with a tiny word that lets me hedge, escape, or qualify my truth.

I scratch my buts because words shape reality. And the reality I am shaping is one of clarity, precision, and intent.

Life is not a script of rehearsed pleasantries or softened half-statements. It is a series of choices—every word, every agreement, every refusal.

And for the first time, I am choosing without disclaimers.

Without hesitation.

Without but.