The Power of Saying No

“No.”
Two letters, one word, an entire universe of meanings that I avoided pronouncing for a long time. Yet, this very word is changing my life, helping me make space for new possibilities and rediscover myself.

I have always been competitive, driven by an idea of success measured by perpetual movement. I lived by saying many “yeses”: to my studies, to work, to every opportunity that could help me achieve my goals. However, I was also very lucky because, in some cases, when faced with opportunities with a high degree of uncertainty, outside my comfort zone, I was able to look up, evaluate them, and embrace them with a “why not?”. This approach took me far, opening doors I had never imagined. It was a powerful mechanism for breaking down prejudices and challenging myself, giving me important and transformative experiences.

But now, I have made space for another tool: “no.” Not a refusal that shuts down, but an invitation to pause, to take a break and better observe what surrounds us.

I have discovered a “no” that does not exclude; rather, it frees. A “no” that allows me to notice, to dedicate attention and time to what truly matters. Something impossible before, as I was always caught up in an endless race of commitments and obligations. Have you ever felt this way?

It’s as if, since I was a child—since the time when, for no valid reason, I confidently stated that I wanted to become an accountant—someone had handed me a map, on which I was supposed to mark my future destinations. A map where you can move in different directions based on the decisions you make. There are those choices that push us forward toward our goal. They are the ones that seem obvious and logical, the ones we make without thinking too much. Even when they are difficult, we know they are necessary, and we find the willpower to take the longer but safer path. For example, when we commit to earning a degree necessary to access our dream job, or when we set an early morning alarm every day to go to the gym and stay in shape. These choices are, in a way, inevitable yeses.

For instance, when I chose my high school, I would have happily pursued any subject based on my interests. But there was always one thing I struggled with: drawing. I found it so difficult that my middle school technology teacher created a separate program just for me, with more computer science and electrical circuits, just to spare both of us the agony of my continuous ink smudges. Therefore, logically, any path involving related subjects was excluded, and between the two options presented to me—scientific high school or classical high school—the latter won hands down. At that time, my goal, my destination on the map, was simply to study things that would allow me to make my next choice with maximum freedom. An easy “yes,” then.

The same logic guided my university choice: I wanted to choose between chemistry, philosophy, and economics. The first was ruled out because a teacher advised against it. I trusted her. The second was where my heart wanted to go, but doubts about job prospects, reinforced by many voices around me, ultimately prevailed. Economics, on the other hand, was a certainty. Again, the most logical choice. The one everyone expected from me. Another easy “yes.”

This brings us to graduation and my first job in strategic consulting. Another solid “yes.” Everything was falling into place according to the expectations shaped by my past choices: I was who I was expected to be, and I had become that person through a series of rational and perfectly logical decisions.

These “yeses” are well-marked paths on our map, straight roads toward our goal. And they work: they make us progress. However, I have learned that they are not the only way to move through life.

Because the map also allows for “why nots?”, for detours that end up completely changing our destination. I remember my first “why not?”: a coffee with a colleague that, from a simple conversation, turned into a proposal to work on a start-up together. That “why not?” pushed me out of my comfort zone, making me explore unknown territory. It was an uncharted path at the time, so much so that, for a while, I struggled to explain to friends and family what I did for a living. But then, when things started working out, people around me understood, they found a label for me and called me an entrepreneur. The unconventional choice from years earlier had kept me uncomfortable for a while, but in the end, it had fit into a path that had found its place on my precious map. And so, the “yeses” could resume. Though, as a small revenge, I did earn a degree in philosophy. In any case, at that point, without ever stopping, I moved from one project to another, from one challenge to the next. Logical choices, safe choices, choices that reinforced the idea of me as an entrepreneur.

But the more I said “yes”, the more I lost sight of something fundamental: because, I don’t believe I am an entrepreneur. Yes, it’s one of the things I have done, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be something else too, that I can’t explore new spaces. That label started feeling too tight. I discussed it with a friend who, in turn, complained about being a slave to his sense of duty and about discovering the importance of saying “no”—at least occasionally—to understand himself. If it hadn’t been him telling me this, I would have thought it was just the complaint of a lazy person, but I knew who I was listening to, and I decided to pay attention.

Thanks to him, I made a discovery: saying “no” is actually a pause. It’s the moment when you stop running and allow yourself the luxury of lifting your eyes from the map to observe the landscape. And then, you also allow choices that don’t seem logical to carve out space among the possible paths. It’s another way of opening up to new things, different from the “why not”, but unlike the latter, its power doesn’t lie in movement but in stillness. And it was precisely this pause that started allowing me to see things differently.

First of all, I began to ask myself: Why am I making this choice? Does it serve to achieve my goal? But also, what is my goal? Am I doing it because it’s truly what I want, or just because it’s what others expect from me?

This question changed everything.

I realized that many decisions had been made just to please others, to avoid disappointing the expectations I imagined others had of me. After all, we are human beings, and to live in society, it is important to consider what others expect of us and how we imagine their opinions might influence our future. This is not only useful, but also necessary. But if taken to the extreme, it can become a trap—like a player so obsessed with winning points that they forget the joy of the game itself.

James P. Carse wrote that there are two kinds of games: finite games, with fixed rules and a goal to win, and infinite games, played for the joy of continuing to play. My friend was telling me to stop chasing rankings and points and to start playing an infinite game—one that more closely resembles life, relationships, and personal growth.

Saying “no” taught me this: the value of standing still, observing, discovering that even in stillness, new things appear on the horizon—things I couldn’t see before but that had perhaps always been there, waiting to be discovered.

Now, standing uncomfortably still, I watch my desires and aspirations reshape. And I realize: I can take the time to enjoy my world before narrowing it again with the next ‘yes.’

Originally published 25th January 2025, Sette. 

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