I Don’t Owe You Nice

Age 6: The First Cut

I learned early that silence gets you nothing but crumbs.

At my cousin’s birthday party, my aunt handed me a slice of cake half the size of everyone else’s. “You’re too chubby for more,” she smirked. The room laughed. My tiny hands shook, but I looked her dead in the eye: “Then I’m too chubby to hug you.” I left the cake uneaten and hid in the backyard. She never portion-shamed me again.

Boundaries aren’t born in therapy journals. They’re forged in fire.

Age 14: The Backbone

In eighth grade, Liam “accidentally” brushed my chest reaching for a pencil. The third time, I slammed his hand with my textbook. “Oops,” I said, voice steady. “Your reflexes are slow.” The teacher scolded me for “overreacting.” I didn’t cry. I wrote a letter to the principal detailing every grope, leer, and locker-room whisper. Liam got suspended. The teacher got sensitivity training.

I learned: Polite girls get gaslit. Precise girls get results.

Age 23: The Gaslight

My ex called my boundaries “walls.” “You’re so cold,” he’d sigh, after I refused to lend him rent money (again). When I caught him snooping through my journals, I packed his bags. “You’re overreacting!” he spat. “It’s just paper!”

“And you’re just trash,” I said, tossing his keys into the dumpster.

People hate mirrors. Especially when they’re cracked.

Age 28: The Betrayal

My best friend, Mara, ghosted me after I rejected her MLM pitch. “I thought you supported women,” she texted. I replied: “I do. That’s why I won’t exploit you.” Months later, she drunkenly confessed: “I hated how you always said ‘no.’ It made me feel… stupid.”

I didn’t apologize.

Funny how “no” feels like an insult to those who’ve never heard it.

Age 32: The Reckoning

At work, my boss insisted I “soften” my tone with male clients. “They think you’re intimidating.”

“Good,” I said.

When HR called me in, I brought transcripts: every time I’d been interrupted, every idea stolen, every “sweetheart” I’d ignored. The boss got “coaching.” I got promoted.

They call you “difficult” when you refuse to play small.

Now: The Truth

I’m not mean. I’m not “too much.”

I’m a war survivor. My battlegrounds? Family dinners, dating apps, boardrooms. My weapons? “No.” “Stop.” “This ends now.”

The ones who hate my boundaries? They’re the same ones who’d bulldoze entire cities to feed their egos. I don’t mourn their absence.

The Cost of Peace

Yes, it’s lonely sometimes.

The cousin who calls me “dramatic.” The mom friends who whisper: “She’s so intense.” The dates who unmatch when I won’t send nudes.

But loneliness is better than suffocation.

To Anyone Who Needs This

You don’t owe them:

* A smile to make their disrespect digestible.

* A hug to soften your “no.”

* An explanation for existing unapologetically.

Boundaries aren’t fences—they’re moats. Let the wrong ones drown.