I’m Still Learning How to Say “No."

Coercion, Consent, and Blurry Lines

Please note:

This piece took me so many attempts to finally get right. Putting the words together in a way that made sense was difficult, and at times, painful. I didn’t feel brave writing it, but I feel brave sharing it. I hope you don't relate, and if you do, I hope that you feel seen. I hope that you know safety now.

Here’s everything I hate about saying “No.”

• I hate when people think that my “No” means “maybe,” and I have to be brave enough to say it again.

• I hate when people *know* that my “No” means “No,” but they think they can wear me down into saying “Yes.”

• I hate that they absolutely can wear me down into saying “Yes.”

• I hate that people might think I’m a bad friend, a bad partner, or a bad person for saying “No.”

• I hate that I think I’m a bad friend, a bad partner, and a bad person for saying “No.”

I didn't label myself a people pleaser until this year. My karmic lesson for 2024 has been learning how to say “No” and how to stick to it. I became painfully aware of this lesson over the summer, when my calendar had become so packed I barely had time to wash my hair. I was overbooked with lunches, co-writes, trips, releases, and touring. I was breaking down almost daily, overwhelmed by everything I’d once enthusiastically agreed to. I didn’t feel like I owned myself, or my time. I was pouring from an empty cup and nothing seemed to satiate my circle.

Unsurprisingly, my libido during this phase of life was low—it’s hard to feel desire when you’re barely in your body. My boyfriend at the time pretended to be cool with this. We frequently discussed how different our sex drives were, and the more it came up, the more I started to feel prudish, lame, and unsexy. Suddenly, the same lesson I was failing to learn in my work life was showing up in my sex life. My “No” was becoming harder and harder to access. It started out small. Having sex when I didn’t really want to felt easier than bearing the weight of his disappointment, which he had gotten increasingly vocal about.

On the days I couldn’t continue, there was a deep-seated tension—a silence that lingered. If I was lucky, I’d get a rushed, detached attempt at aftercare. On the worst days, he'd become visibly agitated and cold. He would mope, as if revoking my consent was somehow hurtful to him. He never forced me to have sex, but he seemed to rescind tenderness when I couldn’t. It was a covert guilt-tripping that slowly eroded my autonomy. Little by little, my ability to make authentic choices in my relationship was compromised.

One night, I finally gave some push back. I had started crying in the middle of sex and couldn’t continue. This time, when the familiar face of disappointment stared back at me, I felt a semblance of self-protection bubbling to the surface.

“I can tell you’re upset,” I said. “It makes me sad that this is frustrating for you. I would hope that my partner would be understanding when I can’t continue.” This turned into a stilted argument. The conversation went nowhere. His final statement was, “I’m allowed to be disappointed, Brye.”

This conclusion reinforced a heartbreaking belief I think I’ve had since childhood: “Other people’s comfort is more important than my safety.” Whether or not he meant to, he was creating an environment where saying “No” was deeply inconvenient. The dynamic of our relationship made my boundaries feel soft. I couldn’t fully trust my “yes” because I couldn’t trust that my “No” would be accepted with warmth. Every little comment, while maybe harmless when isolated, added up. The pressure to perform grew. Sex wasn’t fun anymore. Beyond that, it was something I dreaded.

I used to believe there was no worse feeling than letting him down. But I've been looking back at how far I allowed my boundaries to shift, and the real heartbreak has been realizing how deeply I let myself down. I stayed with him for three more months after this fight. It is my biggest regret. Only when the disappointment turned into a more blatant, coercive anger did I finally leave, and even then I constantly doubt the validity of the violation, the reality of my pain. It’s been excruciating to process.

I’m still grappling with the ramifications of this relationship. I’ve discovered so many things about myself during these three months of voluntary celibacy, one of which is that I am afraid—afraid that by re-entering dating, I’m opening myself up to being hurt, pushed, or made to feel unsafe again. Before I jump back into that risk, I need to get better at saying “No.” I need to work on setting firmer, more honest boundaries. In order to start trusting others, I need to work on trusting myself again.

Consent isn’t a one-time check-in or an expectation. It’s an ongoing negotiation of comfort, boundaries, and mutual respect. This framework is something I’m finally starting to apply to my work and friendships as well. I can agree to get lunch one day, and maybe the next I’ve changed my mind—maybe my period came early, or I overbooked myself. Whatever my reason, I’m allowed to revoke that consent. Lunches can always be rescheduled, sex can always stop. There’s so much freedom in being allowed to change your mind. There’s authenticity and vulnerability in every “No.” Any friend, colleague, or partner who resents me for prioritizing my health and happiness isn’t someone I need to consider in my decision-making to begin with.

I've been practicing this. I've been setting realistic expectation with my work, asking for more time on projects instead of pushing myself to exhaustion. I've said no to dates, out of respect for the timeline I've set for myself (re: being single on purpose). Just last week I canceled dinner with a friend. Usually I would lie and say I was feeling sick, or I would over explain and apologize, but this time I was just honest.

I still felt anxious sending the text, but I got to witness this friend accept my “No” without pushback, and it felt like it brought us closer. It's comforting to know that I have loved ones who make me feel so safe, that someday a partner could make me feel that way too.

Here’s everything I love about saying “No.”

• I love that it makes my “yes” so much more meaningful.

• I love that saying “No” gives me the flexibility to take breaks, clear my schedule, and rest.

• I love seeing people’s reactions to my “No.” I love that it’s so indicative of who is worth my time.

• I love that saying “No” honors my safety.

• and I love that saying “No” allows me to be a better friend, partner, and person in the long run.