When I started saying ‘No’ I was choosing what really works for me, and my family

The old version of me lived in a world where saying “yes” felt like the safest option.

Yes, meant inclusion. Yes, meant ease. Yes, meant I was fun, agreeable, easy to be around. Saying yes felt like a shortcut to belonging, even when every part of my body was quietly protesting. I rarely stopped to ask myself how a situation might actually make me feel. Instead, I focused on how it might look and how it might make others feel about me.

In my head, saying yes meant I was joining in. And joining in meant fun. Except, more often than not, the reality looked very different. The lead-up to plans would be riddled with anxiety. I’d overthink what to wear, what to say, how long I could reasonably stay. During the event, I’d feel overstimulated, counting the minutes until I could leave without appearing rude. Afterwards, instead of feeling fulfilled or connected, I’d feel drained, irritable, and sometimes ashamed for not enjoying something I’d convinced myself I ‘should’ have enjoyed. The fun I had imagined rarely existed outside of that initial yes.

For a long time, I told myself this was just part of being an adult. That everyone felt this way and I simply needed to push through it. That discomfort was the price of connection. But towards the end of 2024, after what was one of the most emotionally difficult periods of my life, something shifted. I realised that constantly putting everyone else first, overriding my gut feelings, and living without boundaries had done far more damage than I’d allowed myself to acknowledge.

That realisation was uncomfortable, but it was also the wake up call I needed. For the first time, I decided to do things that felt good to me not just “fun”, especially not the kind of fun that only benefitted everyone else, but things that felt right, for me.

From that moment on, I made a quiet promise to myself: I would stop betraying my

own needs just to be perceived as easy or agreeable.

Around the same time, I was diagnosed with ADHD in my forties. Suddenly, so much of my past made sense. The overwhelm in social settings. The exhaustion that lingered for days after events. The way certain environments left me feeling frazzled, short-tempered, and emotionally raw long after everyone else had bounced back. I realised that many social situations overstimulated me far more than I’d ever allowed myself to admit. What I’d once framed as a personal failing was my nervous system screaming for help. When it is a child screaming for a snack I listen but when it is my own body I apparently don’t.

So, I started saying no. A lot.

For nearly a year, I said no to almost everything. Parties, dinners, celebrations, small gatherings. All of it. I stepped back in a way that likely looked extreme from the outside but felt necessary from the inside. I needed space to reset. To strip things back. To understand who I was when I wasn’t constantly responding to other people’s expectations.

And honestly? I didn’t hate it.

Even when loneliness crept in or , it felt different — less frantic, more honest. I allowed myself to accept that this phase might cost me friendships, or at the very least change how some people perceived me. I knew there would be judgement.

People might think I’d become boring, antisocial, or distant. But for the first time, that felt like a price I was willing to pay.

What mattered more was becoming the best version of myself in a way that was sustainable beyond just a couple of weeks. I wanted to show up better in my career, as a mum, as a wife, and as a friend. Those are a lot of roles for one person to hold, and I’d been trying to carry them all while completely ignoring my own capacity.

Something had to give.

This wasn’t an easy change. Saying no is often framed as empowering, but in practice it can feel deeply uncomfortable, with a mix of guilt and fear. There’s the worry that you’re disappointing people or slowly erasing yourself from their lives. A thought I still have but over time it has started to feel a lot more comfortable.

Around this same period, I also stopped drinking alcohol. It was another habit I’d maintained largely to fit in, despite never really enjoying it. Alcohol had been a social crutch, a way to soften edges and make myself feel better in environments that already overwhelmed me. Removing it felt like another quiet rebellion. At first, I worried about how it would look. Would people judge me? Would they ask questions? Would I be excluded?

Some did. Some didn’t. And eventually, I stopped caring and actually people stopped

asking.

There was something incredibly empowering about choosing myself without explanation. About sitting with a soft drink in my hand and feeling no need to justify it. About trusting that the people who truly understood me wouldn’t see these changes as rejection, but as self-protection.

Over a year on, I can say with confidence that I am in the best place I’ve been emotionally in a very long time. I still say yes, but only when it’s genuine. Only when it comes from a place of desire rather than obligation. I no longer agree to things I know I won’t enjoy just to keep the peace. And the people closest to me understand that my no is never personal. It’s not a lack of love or interest; it’s an act of care, for me, who also matters in this situation.

By honouring my boundaries, I’ve become more present in the moments that matter. I’m a better mum because I’m not constantly depleted. A better partner because I’m more regulated and honest. A better friend because when I show up, I truly show up.

Even professionally, I feel clearer, more focused, more confident in my decisions. This version of me isn’t louder or busier or more visible, but she is grounded. She listens to her gut. She understands that protecting her energy isn’t selfish; it’s necessary. And for that, I will never be sorry.

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Scarlett Sykes is a writer, journalist and mum of three. Read more of her work here.