Saying No: The Art Women Are Never Taught

No, Amma. I’m Not Okay With It.

I wish I had said it to her then. I remember the afternoon sunlight pouring into our tiny kitchen, the smell of sambar lingering in the air. Amma was talking — more to herself than to me — about how important it was for women to be “adjustable.” How she never said no to her in-laws. How she never complained, never questioned, never refused. “It’s what makes a woman graceful,” she said, wiping her hands on her cotton saree. I nodded. Of course I did. That’s what I’d always done. But inside me, something cracked. Because grace, I had learned, often came wrapped in silence. And silence — mine, hers, every woman’s — came at a cost we never learned how to calculate.

I don’t remember the first time I said “yes” when I really meant “no. ”But I remember the thousand times that followed. “No” – such a tiny, two-letter word. And yet, for most women, it feels like a full-blown rebellion. Growing up, “yes” was stitched into our saree borders. We said yes to second helpings (even when we were full), yes to guests staying over (even when we were drowning in housework), yes to extra assignments, yes to unwanted advice, and yes to adjusting — always adjusting. Somewhere between “Karthika, be nice” and “What would people say,” we lost the ability to say no without guilt.

I’ll tell you a story.

A few years ago, I was at a gathering. The kind where people you barely know want to know everything about you — your salary, your waist size, and your fertility status. One aunty, bless her curious soul, asked me to sing, on a mic.I politely said, “I’m not comfortable. "She chuckled, “Hey, why so shy? Girls these days have so much attitude''. She handed me the mic anyway. And just like that — I sang. Horribly. Regrettably. But the applause wasn’t for my talent. It was for my obedience. For being a “good girl.” I remember thinking — why was it easier to embarrass myself in public than to simply say “No, aunty, thank you”? Because that’s how we were raised.

Why It Hurts to Say No, because we weren’t taught how. We were taught how to serve tea, not how to protect our peace. We were taught how to host guests, not how to guard boundaries. We were taught to listen, to smile, to nod. But not to push back. Not to reject. Not to put ourselves first. So when we say “No” — to extra work, to pressure, to unwanted touch, to emotional labour — we’re not just fighting a person. We’re fighting generations of obedience. That’s why it hurts. That’s why it feels like betrayal. Because we’ve always been told that being good means being available, agreeable, and self-sacrificing.

I’ve said yes to things that broke me.

Yes to babysitting .

Yes to phone conversations when I wanted silence.

Yes to smiling at relatives who didn’t deserve my politeness.

Yes to wearing the saree I didn’t want to wear, singing the song I didn’t want to sing, visiting the people I didn’t want to see. Because I was raised to keep the peace. And peace, for women, is often just another word for self-erasure.

From playgrounds to puja rooms, we’re conditioned to keep the peace, even if it means sacrificing our own. We’re applauded for compromise, not courage. Assertiveness is mistaken for arrogance. Boundaries are mistaken for bad upbringing.

But here’s what I’ve learned – saying no isn’t rude. It’s honest. It’s a full sentence. A form of self-respect. And it doesn’t always need an explanation. Saying no doesn’t mean I love less. It means I love myself, too. When you say yes while your soul screams no, it’s not kindness — it’s betrayal. Of yourself. Of your body. Of your boundaries. My “no” didn’t make me rude .It made me real. I wish someone had told me earlier that no is not the opposite of love. That it doesn’t make me difficult, selfish, arrogant, or “too much. ”It makes me honest.

So I’m learning — slowly, clumsily — to say:

• No, I don’t want to talk right now.

• No, I don’t owe you an explanation.

• No, I won’t smile just to make you comfortable.

• No, I won’t play small so you can feel big.

• No to attending every wedding that involves a distant cousin's cousin.

• No to guilt-tripping disguised as tradition.

• No to toxic positivity, forced smiles, and people-pleasing.

Each no is a brick — not a wall, but a home. A home where your voice lives. Where you can sit with your truth and not be punished for it. The world doesn’t end when you say no. But something beautiful begins. You begin. It still feels hard. My “no” comes with palpitations and post-no guilt hangovers. But each time I do it, I feel a little freer. Like I’m reclaiming the parts of me I gave away to politeness and people-pleasing.

To My Younger Self, If I could go back, I would hold her trembling hands, look into her tear-brimmed eyes, and whisper: “ You are allowed to be heard. You are allowed to say no — not with anger, not with guilt —But with the quiet knowing that you deserve a life that fits you, not one you’re forced to fit into. ”And to you, the reader, if you’ve ever said yes with a broken heart —this is your reminder: Your “No” is sacred. Your “No” is enough. Your “No” might just save you. And that, my dear, is the most graceful thing you can ever do.

So to the women reading this —who’s biting her tongue, rearranging her schedule, silencing her discomfort just to make others comfortable —I see you. And I hope someday, you’ll say no too. Not because you’re angry .But because you’re allowed to. You always were.