Crow and Flame

When I say no, I’m not attacking you.

I’m not rejecting you.

I’m not trying to start a fight.

I’m not trying to be difficult.

I’m trying to breathe.

For some people, “no” feels like disrespect.

Like defiance.

Like I’m suddenly challenging their authority, their comfort, their expectations.

But for me?

“No” is a life raft.

Because I come from a place where “no” wasn’t allowed.

Where saying no had consequences.

Where resistance was punished.

Where silence was safer than honesty.

So when I say no now, it isn’t casual.

It’s courageous.

It’s me unlearning the instinct to shrink.

It’s me choosing my nervous system over your approval.

It’s me choosing self-respect over survival mode.

And if you’ve never lived through trauma, you may not understand how hard it is to say no without shaking inside.

How much guilt comes with it.

How many nights we replay it in our head afterward, wondering if we were too harsh… too blunt… too much.

Trauma teaches you to be agreeable.

To keep the peace.

To anticipate everyone else’s emotions before your own.

It teaches you that love is something you earn by being easy.

So when I say no, it’s not a power move.

It’s not an attitude.

It’s not a jab.

It’s a boundary.

And boundaries are not weapons.

They’re protection.

Sometimes I say no because I’m tired.

Sometimes because I’m overwhelmed.

Sometimes because I know exactly what will happen if I don’t.

Sometimes I say no because I’m healing, and I can’t keep reopening wounds just to prove I’m “nice.”

Because here’s the truth:

If you only feel loved when I have no limits,

you don’t love me.

You love access.

And that’s the part that hurts—when people act like my boundary is cruelty.

When they treat my self-protection like betrayal.

When they twist my words until I’m the villain for simply asking to be respected.

But the truth is…

people who are used to you overgiving will always feel entitled to the version of you that had no boundaries.

They will mourn the old you.

The compliant you.

The always-available you.

But I don’t mourn her.

I mourn what she endured.

I mourn how often she said yes while her soul screamed no.

I mourn how she bent herself into shapes that never fit.

I mourn how she mistook exhaustion for love.

So no—when I say no, I’m not attacking you.

I’m defending the parts of me that no one defended before.

I’m choosing the version of myself that finally believes she deserves safety.

And if my no makes you angry,

maybe you should ask yourself why my boundaries feel like a threat.

Because love doesn’t require self-abandonment.

And healing doesn’t come from being endlessly accommodating.

Sometimes healing looks like one small word, spoken through trembling lips:

No.

And that is not violence.

That is freedom.

—Crow & Flame 🖤🔥