Ever think of saying no, but still say yes because you feel like you’re supposed to?
Isn’t it exhausting?
I’ve had to learn—slowly, painfully, prayerfully—that my “no” is sacred. That honoring my body and my peace is a form of worship, not weakness. My body forced me into this lesson.
I’ve been in two accidents. One with a drunk driver. The other, a near miss with a car guard who ran across the street unexpectedly. Neither accident was the fault of the drivers I was with, but both left an imprint. My body’s memory is longer than mine sometimes.
I’ve carried two babies. My second born was almost four kilograms and I have a tiny midsection. Every inch of me hurt beyond what felt possible.
So now, basic movements—bending, walking, even standing—can leave me aching in ways no one can see. I don’t look like someone struggling. But I do. Every day. And I’ve accepted that this is part of my normal.
I used to say yes too often. To gatherings. To outings. To expectations. Now? I only say yes to what matters. Because the cost of pretending is too high. And honestly? My no was never about them. It was about protecting what God has entrusted to me—my healing, my strength, my calling.
I didn’t want this struggle. I prayed for healing. I still do. But I believe now that if the victory is divine, so is the struggle. And in the days when I cannot bend, cannot move easily, cannot do what others may do without a second thought—I ask: What can I do?
I can write.
I can pray.
I can worship.
Better yet, I can sit in worship and write prayers for others who might also be holding pain quietly, invisibly. So, yes. I’ve gotten comfortable with my no. I’ve made peace with it.
And I hope, in time, you do too.
