· 8 min read
For years, I believed that my worth was measured by how many tasks I could shoulder, how many people I could help, and how few times I dared to say “no.” I told myself that this was evidence of my dedication—proof that I was diligent, supportive, and deserving of praise. Whether it was volunteering for grassroots movements that needed every extra hand, taking on yet another assignment from my boss, or putting my friends’ emergencies ahead of my own family obligations, I rarely paused to question my motivations. Deep down, however, I was driven by the fear of letting people down and losing their approval. That fear was the invisible weight on my shoulders, slowly but surely dragging me toward burnout.
I can pinpoint countless moments in which the choice to say “no” would have preserved my energy, my peace of mind, and even my relationships. Yet I almost always chose “yes.” When my boss needed someone to put in extra hours on a pressing project, I volunteered immediately. I convinced myself it was an opportunity to demonstrate my commitment. My friends would call, asking for favors that compromised the time I intended to spend with family, and I could not bear to reject them. I was horrified by the possibility of being seen as selfish or unavailable. Even in my home life, when my parents wanted my full attention and support despite my own emotional reserves running dangerously low, I felt compelled to drop everything. The thought of letting them down—or worse, of losing their love—superseded any sense of self-preservation. The idea of protecting my own boundaries seemed impossibly foreign, if not outright forbidden.
All this goodwill was propelled by a longing to be valued and needed. Yet what I failed to realize was that the constant cycle of overcommitment offered only the illusion of stability and acceptance. On the surface, I appeared competent and kindhearted. Inside, I wrestled with a growing sense of exhaustion, resentment, and guilt. Far from becoming more connected to the world around me, I felt distanced from everyone—including myself. Unable to voice my limits, I found it increasingly difficult to know where my authentic desires ended and where external expectations began.
In hindsight, my predicament resonates with the broader struggle many face in our hyper-connected, hyper-demanding culture. From a philosophical standpoint, this experience can be understood through the lens of authenticity versus attachment. So many of us cling to external validations—be it from colleagues, friends, or social causes—because we fear that without these affirmations, we are unworthy. The existentialist thinker Martin Heidegger famously wrote about living inauthentically when we let “the They,” or societal norms, dictate our actions. I was, quite clearly, lost in “the They.” My “yes” reflex emerged not from a place of sincerity but from an anxious need to hold onto whatever fragments of approval I could gather.
The irony is that I genuinely wanted to help people, and there is nothing wrong with that. Empathy and community involvement can be beautiful, life-affirming pursuits. The real problem arose when I based my entire sense of self on fulfilling every request, large or small, from bosses, friends, and family alike. In doing so, I was unable to nurture my own well-being or even identify what my own needs were. I pushed through moments of physical fatigue, telling myself I could sleep once the project was done. I ignored emotional turmoil, persuading myself that rest or relaxation was an unproductive luxury. I could not honestly recall the last time I engaged in play or creativity simply for the joy of it. Over time, my relentless decisions finally culminated in full-blown burnout and serious illness, leaving me drained on every level—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Then, at just 36 years old, I suffered a brain aneurysm. Remarkably, I pulled through without any lasting damage, but lying in a hospital bed where most patients were in their eighties made me take a hard look at the choices that had brought me to this point.
It was only when I reached this breaking point that I began to question the narrative driving me. Why was it so hard for me to say “no”? Did I truly want to be involved in all these endeavors, or was I just trying to avoid disappointing people? Was my endless series of “yes” answers an expression of my true self, or were they born out of fear and a deep-seated desire to be needed? Answering these questions launched a painful yet liberating journey of self-discovery.
Learning to say “no”
The first step was learning to recognize the power of “no.” While I initially associated “no” with guilt and betrayal, I came to see it as an essential act of self-preservation and, paradoxically, as a gift to others as well. A resentful “yes,” I realized, does not truly serve anyone. When I say “yes” while my energy is sapped and my heart is not in it, I offer a diluted version of my presence. Conversely, a clear and confident “no” allows me to show up authentically when I do choose to help.
Saying “no” also required me to grapple with uncomfortable emotions. For instance, I felt pangs of guilt when I turned down a friend’s request to assist with a last-minute project. Yet I recognized that I needed that time for my own family commitments—ones that I had previously neglected. Surprisingly, the world did not end when I refused. My friend found an alternative solution, our relationship endured, and I had the peace of mind to invest in important time with my loved ones. This realization was an important affirmation: boundaries need not terminate relationships; in fact, they can strengthen them by fostering clarity and respect.
Learning to say “yes”
Once I had begun to practice “no,” a new challenge emerged: learning to say “yes” to myself. This aspect was almost as difficult as boundary-setting with others because I had spent so long dismissing my own needs. For years, I had relegated joys like relaxation, creativity, and play to the bottom of my to-do list. I believed indulging these impulses was unproductive or even selfish. Yet as I stumbled toward recovery, I discovered that “yes” to self-care is not a luxury—it is a necessity.
One of the first things I did was reclaim a few hours each weekend for uninterrupted rest. Not a doze in front of my work computer, but genuine downtime—reading a book I had always wanted to explore, going for a solitary walk to clear my head, or simply daydreaming. This small shift felt monumental. By consistently saying “yes” to restorative activities, my sense of self slowly began to reemerge, like a plant finally receiving water after a drought. I found more patience for my work and a greater capacity to offer empathy to those around me, because I was no longer operating on empty.
I also started giving myself permission to say “yes” to creativity—another realm I had neglected. I found that writing, painting, or even cooking a new recipe for the fun of it became meditative acts that reconnected me to a sense of wonder. These pockets of exploration nourished my spirit far more than the fleeting approval I used to chase. While I might never become a professional artist, the act of creating became its own reward, reminding me that joy can be an end in itself.
Choosing authenticity over attachment
Eventually, I realized that the key shift in my mindset was moving from attachment to authenticity. The more I understood that my value as a human being does not hinge on always saying “yes,” the more liberated I felt. Authenticity meant valuing my own limits and capacities, while still caring deeply for my community and loved ones. It meant trusting that real connections can withstand the word “no,” and that genuine acts of assistance come from a place of abundance rather than fear.
The result was an unfolding transformation that touched every aspect of my life. My relationships improved because I was no longer acting out of unspoken resentment or obligation. My professional life became more focused and gratifying because I was able to discern which projects genuinely aligned with my skills and passions. Most of all, I began to experience a sense of wholeness—no longer split between an external self that sought constant approval and an internal self crying out for rest and recognition. Although I still grapple with the guilt from saying no, i for further in my journey than I ever hoped to imagined
Who would I be if I couldn’t say “no”?
I sometimes reflect on who I might still be if I had never found the courage to say “no.” I imagine myself trapped in a cycle of perpetual obligation, so consumed by other people’s needs that I had no room for my own. My relationships would remain superficial, sustained by forced compliance rather than genuine engagement. My emotional reserves would be drained, and my sense of self would be increasingly blurred. In that scenario, burnout is not just likely—it is inevitable.
Conclusion: embracing a balanced approach
I have come to see that saying “no” and saying “yes” are inseparable companions on the path to balance. By learning to set boundaries, I freed myself from the tyranny of endless obligation. By learning to say “yes” to my own restoration and creativity, I rediscovered the parts of myself that had been lost in the vortex of external demands. Both acts stem from a shared commitment to authenticity—a willingness to be honest with myself and with those who matter to me.
Choosing authenticity over attachment is not an easy process. It requires us to question the stories we tell ourselves about what it means to be worthy, loved, and successful. Yet in challenging these narratives, we unlock a truer sense of self, one no longer tethered to the fleeting approval of others. This, in the end, is the paradoxical gift of burnout: it breaks us down so thoroughly that we must finally confront what truly nourishes us and what does not. In the rebuilding phase, we discover that balanced giving, grounded in self-awareness, leads to more genuine connections, greater resilience, and a renewed zest for life. By daring to say “no” and giving ourselves permission to say “yes,” we plant the seeds for a healthier, more authentic existence—one in which caring for ourselves does not detract from caring for others but instead elevates everyone involved.
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