What if the struggle was never that we didn’t know how to say no? What if we learned that no wasn’t enough? No was followed by why? No was met with another question. Another explanation. Another attempt. Until eventually we learned that it was easier to give in than to keep defending ourselves. And then we grew up. We carried that pattern into our marriages, our friendships, our parenting, our bodies. We wondered why we had trouble knowing what we wanted. Why affection sometimes made our bodies tense. Why we needed a reason to rest. Why we explained ourselves endlessly. Why we sometimes said yes when something inside of us was quietly saying no. Maybe this is where we begin again. In this house, no doesn’t require a courtroom. You may want to understand my no, but you do not get to decide whether my reason is good enough. You can be disappointed by my no. You can have feelings about my no. You can wish my answer were different. And my no can still remain no. I want my children to know this. I want my husband to know this. And perhaps most importantly, I want my own body to finally know this. I don’t need to become exhausted enough. Angry enough. Sick enough. Overwhelmed enough. Touched-out enough. Or hurt enough for my no to become worthy of being honored. And I don’t want the people I love to have to reach that place either. Maybe honoring a no is not rejection. Maybe it is one of the deepest ways we can say: I see that you are separate from me. Your body is yours. Your needs are yours. Your boundaries do not threaten my love. And when your yes comes— I will know it is yours too.

💕(The pause itself is part of the witnessing)💕 I’ve been thinking about the space that comes after we ask someone a question. How often do we give them enough room to actually answer? We live in a world that constantly asks us to move faster—to accomplish, respond, produce, decide, move on. And I notice how easily that same rhythm enters our conversations. We ask a question, and before the other person has finished gathering their thoughts, our own mind begins filling the silence. We offer another question. We explain what we meant. We guess what they are going to say. We fill in the blanks. But what happens when we don’t? What happens when we ask the question and simply stay? There may be a few seconds of silence. Maybe even an uncomfortable pause. But perhaps that pause isn’t empty at all. Perhaps something is still forming inside the other person. I remember watching my mother do this with my father. She could leave room for him to find his own words. And I have found myself learning to do the same. There is something deeply honoring about allowing another person to finish their thought without rushing them toward our own. Because sometimes the first answer isn’t the deepest one. Sometimes a person says, “I don’t really like that,” and if we give them enough space, they may discover, “Actually, I think it brings something up in me.” Sometimes they don’t need another question. They simply need to know that we are still there. The pause says: You don’t have to hurry. You don’t have to find the perfect words. I’m not going to fill this space for you. I’m here to hear what is actually yours. Maybe listening isn’t always about knowing what to say next. Maybe sometimes the deepest listening is having the courage not to say anything yet. To let the silence breathe. To let another person’s thought become their own. And to trust that something meaningful may emerge when we stop rushing it forward.

Will be recording my 10 Day Ground Journey this week! Stay tuned....✨