No Is A Full Sentence

Effective immediately, I hereby resign from the following positions:

• The Strong One™
• The Quiet One (Unless It’s Funny, Then I’m Allowed a Quip)
• The One Who Never Says No Because “She’s Just So Reliable”

I’m done. I quit. My office plant is dead, my emotional inbox is full, and I’ve been working unpaid overtime in these roles since childhood. I want my time back. I want my spine back. I want to be done.

Let’s start with “The Strong One.”

You know her. She’s the one who doesn’t cry at funerals. The one who says “I’m fine” even when her chest feels like a collapsing mine shaft. The one who holds your hand when your world falls apart but builds her own grief a quiet coffin and buries it where no one can see. I wore her like armour. I bled inside it.

And sure, being “strong” got me applause. It got me family members who called me “mature for my age” and friends who texted “you’re so grounded” while I sobbed into the bathroom sink between back-to-back obligations. It got me the kind of admiration that feels like a slow death — people love the version of me who never needs anything. It’s neat. It’s tidy. It’s emotionally convenient.

But I need. God, I need.

I need to be weak sometimes. I need to sob into someone’s shoulder without worrying that I’ve ruined their shirt or their night. I need to fall apart and not feel guilty for the mess I leave behind. I need to say, out loud, “I’m not okay.”

Which brings me to “The Quiet One.”

The one who never interrupts. The one who smiles through other people’s monologues, who bites her tongue until it bruises just to keep the peace. The one who learned early that speaking up leads to side-eyes, to “you’re being dramatic,” to “can you just drop it?” So I did. I dropped it. Again and again, until all the little things I swallowed started to rot in my gut.

I’m tired of being digestible.

I’m tired of thinking of the perfect thing to say three days too late. I’m tired of whispering my rage into pillows and pretending it’s meditation. I’m tired of being palatable, agreeable, quiet. I wasn’t born to be background noise in other people’s lives. I’m allowed to take up space. So are my opinions. So is my anger.

And finally, let’s talk about “The One Who Never Says No.”

The emotional customer service rep. The people-pleasing shapeshifter. The “sure, I can help” girl with a planner full of tasks that never belonged to her.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but “no” is a full sentence. And I’m finally going to use it. Loudly. Unapologetically.

No, I will not pick up your slack just because you’re “overwhelmed” — I’m overwhelmed too.

No, I will not attend your cousin’s bridal shower three hours away on my only day off.

No, I will not answer “just one more thing” when I’ve already said goodnight.

No, I will not pretend I’m okay with being your afterthought.

I used to say yes because I thought that’s how you earned love — by being indispensable. But being everything to everyone left nothing for me. I became a hollowed-out version of myself, nodding along while my soul quietly starved.

So, this is me, walking away from the buffet of everyone else’s needs. I’m starving, and I deserve to eat too.

Let me be clear: this resignation isn’t about giving up. It’s about letting go.

Letting go of the idea that worth is measured by how much you can carry without complaint. Letting go of the belief that shrinking makes you safer. Letting go of the habit of saying “yes” when every bone in your body is screaming “please, no.”

This isn’t a soft exit. This is a slammed door. A matched flame. A scream I’m finally letting out.

Will there be fallout? Probably. People don’t like it when the girl they leaned on starts standing up for herself. I expect some confusion. Some distance. Maybe even some resentment. That’s okay. I’ll take their disappointment over my own burnout any day.

From here on out, I’m not the strong one.

I’m the real one.

The one who asks for help.

The one who cries in public sometimes.

The one who says, “I can’t.”

The one who says, “That hurt.”

The one who says, “Not anymore.”

You’ll get used to her. Or you won’t. That’s not my job anymore.

And if no one claps when I stop performing? Fine. I’ll be too busy resting to notice.

Sincerely (but finally, not self-sacrificially),

Me

P.S. I’m keeping the snacks in the break room, the last sliver of dignity I’ve got left, and my favourite mug. You can have the guilt.