“You need to slow down and listen to your body. Why do you keep falling into this spiral?” My mother’s voice is cracked into fragments. Her warm palm finds my spine as she sits next to me on the couch—I don’t react, I can’t react. Why won’t my body just move? I’m lying on my side staring at the pale gray wall that mirrors the lifeless pallet painted across my face. Observing time continues without me like taking a photograph out of a speeding car. Is there any way to escape this spiral?

A variation of that first phrase is said to me more often than not by my friends and family. I know they are just looking out for me, but I blame it on the two most destructive words I could say. No worries. It’s my way of dodging the tricky task of telling people no. Truth is, saying no isn't my strong suit, and I find myself doing whatever it takes to avoid it even if it means sacrificing everything that makes me full of life.

The whole "no worries" habit goes way back. I picked up the idea that saying this portrays me as admirable and easygoing. It seemed like a good plan to keep things peaceful, but now I see it's been like erasing bits of my own life. Every time I say yes, it's like handing over another piece of me. 

First, I noticed the exhaustion that followed a completed task that was instantly followed by another one. Handing over my beaming glow that used to twirl around me daily. Then came the anxiety, something I’d adapted to as “normal” for quite some time until realizing I felt claustrophobic laying in a meadow of open land. Handing over my strong relationships with others while also giving up love for myself. Lastly, my “breaking point” is a combination of all my worst habits that leave me on the couch once again, facing the wall, and my mother sitting aside my drained body. What happens when I have nothing left to give?  

It's funny—saying "no worries" was supposed to be my easy way out, but it turns out I was lying to myself. The more I say yes, the more worries I'm piling on. It's like I'm using those two words to hide the fact that my soul needed to rest.

I'm starting to get that it's okay to say no sometimes.  It's like this slow process of realizing it's not easy, and I'm still figuring it out, but each time I say no, it feels like I'm taking a step toward becoming the best version of myself. I began to listen to the cues my body told me instead of ignoring them until they became unmanageable. As I become more intentional with my choices, the transformation is evident—the weight of constant overcommitment lifts and I discovered the empowering beauty of saying "no”. It wasn't a rejection of others but a newfound affirmation of my own needs and priorities.

 Although that dangerous weight was lifted, it hovers over me like a shadow that doesn’t disappear in complete darkness—I feel its ability to drop at any moment. But with time and growth, it will become easier to resist the impact of a falling force. “I’m so proud that you started listening to your body and slowing down to heal. You don't see yourself falling back into your spiral?” My mom asked me during dinner a couple of weeks ago.

“No, I have no worries.”