Just Say No

Remember Nancy Reagan and her ridiculous anti-drug campaign? Yeah, that didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. That’s because “no” isn’t for us to tell others what to do. It’s about what we choose to do or not do.

There was a time when I couldn’t just say no

Declining an invitation required a story.

Not just a sentence, but a small narrative arc. A reason with edges softened in advance. Something plausible, preferably external, preferably temporary. I was busy. I was tired. I already had plans. I’d been looking forward to it but something came up. I would love to, another time.

I wasn’t lying exactly. But I wasn’t telling the truth either.

The truth, often enough, was simpler and somehow harder to say: I didn’t feel like going. I needed a nap and a bath much more than a hangout. I wanted to be home. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to go running or read a book. None of these felt like socially acceptable reasons, so I’d translate them into something more polite. Something smoother. Something that suggested regret rather than preference.

I did this reflexively, without thinking much about it. It felt like basic social hygiene. You didn’t just say no. You padded it. You made it palatable. You demonstrated an understanding of the rules.

Then at some point, without a decision or a declaration, I stopped explaining myself.

How “Just say no” started working for me

I didn’t make an announcement or frame it as a boundary, practice or new way of being. I just noticed one day that when an invitation came in and I didn’t want to go, I no longer reached for a justification. I typed, “I can’t make it,” and hit send. Or, “Not today, I’m sorry.” Sometimes, “I don’t feel like it today. Can we do another day?”

The sentences got shorter. The pauses got longer. Something in me unclenched. I was getting real. It got easier with each passing year.

What surprised me wasn’t that I could do this, but how little happened when I did. No one interrogated me. No one demanded clarification. No one asked for receipts. The imagined social fallout never arrived. Most people responded with some version of “no problem” or “another time.” The moment passed. Life continued.

What got easier first was the internal choreography. I stopped rehearsing. I stopped scanning for the most acceptable excuse. I stopped trying to predict how disappointed someone might be and adjusting my language accordingly. I didn’t have to keep track of which stories I’d told to whom, or remember to circle back later and perform the appropriate amount of follow-up enthusiasm.

When you just say no, expectations go away

There’s a particular kind of low-grade tension that comes from managing other people’s expectations in advance. It’s subtle, but it’s constant. When I stopped explaining myself, that tension lifted. My body noticed before my mind did. I felt quieter. More neutral. Less braced.

I also noticed how often my old excuses had been doing a kind of emotional labor on behalf of other people. I was cushioning them from a truth I assumed they couldn’t handle: that my desire was finite, that my energy fluctuated, that sometimes the answer really was just no. By translating my internal reality into something more palatable, I was taking responsibility for their comfort.

Letting that go felt less like empowerment and more like fatigue. I was tired of narrating myself. Tired of smoothing every edge. Tired of pretending that wanting to be alone required an explanation beyond itself.

Consequences of Just say no

There was a cost, though. There always is.

Some invitations stopped coming. Some people seemed unsettled by the lack of padding, the absence of a story they could politely reject. It became clear who was attached to the ritual—the back-and-forth, the performance of mutual regret—and who was actually interested in seeing me.

A few relationships thinned. Not dramatically. No blowups, no confrontations. Just a gentle falling away. I noticed who needed me to want what they wanted in order to feel secure. I noticed who heard “not today” as a personal slight rather than a neutral fact. I noticed who required access, availability, and explanation as proof of care.

This wasn’t devastating, but it was clarifying.

What I lost was a certain kind of social density. Fewer plans. Fewer default yeses. Less busyness that could be mistaken for connection. I lost the feeling of being universally agreeable, of being easy to accommodate because I accommodated everyone else first.

What I gained was honesty—mine, and other people’s. When I stopped explaining myself, I stopped inviting negotiation. The no was cleaner. It left less room for resentment to gather quietly in the background. And the yeses that remained felt different. They had weight. They had intention.

I began to notice something else, too: the people who stayed didn’t require polish. They didn’t need my reasons to be impressive or defensible. They heard “I don’t feel like it today” without injury. They understood that wanting to be alone wasn’t a rejection of them. With them, honesty didn’t feel like a rupture; it felt like orientation.

These relationships grew simpler. Not smaller, but simpler. There was less air-traffic control, less emotional bookkeeping. We trusted each other to mean what we said. We trusted that no didn’t require translation.

This shift didn’t make me more virtuous. It didn’t make me more evolved. It didn’t turn me into someone who no longer cared about other people’s feelings. If anything, it made me more accurate. I stopped offering politeness in place of truth. I stopped confusing smoothness with kindness.

There’s a cultural script that says honesty must be dramatic, confrontational, or brave. This wasn’t any of those things. It was quiet. It was almost boring. It felt less like a breakthrough and more like arriving late to a realization that had been waiting for me.

I also didn’t become inflexible or closed off. Saying no more cleanly made it easier to say yes without resentment. When I agreed to plans, I meant it. I showed up with more presence because I hadn’t dragged myself there out of obligation. My social life became smaller in some ways and more spacious in others.

I’m aware this runs counter to how we’re often taught to move through the world—especially women. Many of us who learned early that harmony depended on our ability to be accommodating. We’re taught that honesty needs softening, that desire needs translation, that refusal needs justification. We’re taught to be agreeable first and precise later, if at all.

I don’t feel angry about that anymore. I don’t feel the need to correct it. I simply don’t participate in it the same way. This changed me for the better and my work improved.

Two types of people care about. “just say no”

One big discovery comes out of using just say no. I found out who I wanted to get closer to and who I can do without. This was easy to figure out once I started saying no without explanation.

Some people resist when I just say no because they want to see me and it’s important to them. If that’s the case, they’ll explain a little and say they value our time together (for whatever reason). Would I reconsider? The answer is usually yes because they clearly care and it likely means we’re getting closer, which is the whole point of friendship.

Others are just nosy. That’s a very different kind of caring. It’s caring about themselves and not about our connection. This comes in the format of questions about them. What’s more important than spending time with them?

I learned this lesson with a friend I thought was close. At one point I was in the hospital. This friend was much more concerned with why I didn’t call them than they were about my well being. I took note of this.

Then I created distance. The fact that this was their reaction also reminded me of why I didn’t call them from the hospital… and why I would be calling them less going forward.

You don’t need a reason to just say no

Now, when an invitation arrives and I don’t want to go, I don’t search for a reason that will sound acceptable. I don’t translate my internal weather into something more polite. I answer more plainly than I used to. Sometimes I just say no. Sometimes it’s not today. Sometimes it’s another time, and I mean it.

What’s happened after I just say no has been unexpectedly intimate.

With the people who remain, something opens. The conversation moves past logistics and pleasantries and into what’s actually happening in our lives—energy, capacity, strain, desire. There is less checking in for form’s sake and more speaking from where we actually are. Honesty, it turns out, invites more of itself.

My life is less crowded now, but it’s also more meaningful. The spaces between things are wider, and they hold more. Plans arrive more slowly and land more deliberately. I notice how rarely I feel the need to justify myself. I can just say no and the stillness that follows feels like relief rather than loss.

When I say yes now, it’s clean. When I just say no, it leaves room behind it. I’m learning that this room—this unclaimed space—is not emptiness.

It’s where the real conversation begins.

Crone Advice from Kflo

Why take advice from me? As a rule, advice is crap – I agree. But as a 55 year old New Yorker, I’ve seen some things. I also promise to give your question thoughtful consideration. It’s juicy stuff to reflect upon after you’ve completely ignored my advice.