Diary Entry- I said "no"

Diary Entry: I Finally Said No

Yesterday, something small happened. So small, in fact, that I might’ve missed its significance if I hadn’t paused long enough to feel the quiet tremble in my chest afterward.

Someone reached in for a hug — the kind I’ve accepted countless times before, even when everything inside me screamed no. Not because I disliked the person. Not because I’m cold or dramatic or broken. Just because… there are certain types of closeness that don’t feel safe in my body anymore.

And yesterday, for the first time, I didn’t smile through it or freeze or fold myself up into tolerance. I simply stepped back, gently, and said, “No, thank you.”

That moment — so brief — carries the weight of years.

Because for a long time, I didn’t have the words. I didn’t have the right to say no. I didn’t even know I could. Touch became a performance, a way to keep peace, to seem fine, to convince myself I was "over it." After the trauma— I learned quickly that people don’t always ask if you're okay before they reach for you. And even when they do, the pressure to make them feel comfortable is deafening.

There were hugs that left me frozen. Smiles I faked. Rooms I left early. I used to think I was being silly — that something was wrong with me for not liking something so ordinary. But what I know now is that trauma rewires your nervous system. It teaches you to prioritize other people’s comfort over your own safety. And unlearning that takes time, and softness, and patience.

And then today, out of nowhere, I found myself not pushing past my discomfort — but listening to it.

I could feel the moment stretch between us — thick and awkward, like a thread tugged too tight. But then it passed. And the world didn’t end. They nodded. We kept talking. The sun didn’t stop shining. And I didn’t crumble.

What did happen, though, was something quiet and seismic all at once: I trusted myself.

Healing is strange like that. It doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes it sneaks in through small things — in a skipped hug, in a breath you didn’t have to hold, in a boundary honored not by someone else, but by you.

So today, I’m not celebrating bravery like some loud, triumphant anthem. I’m holding space for a version of myself who didn’t know she could say no — and I’m gently telling her: “You did it. We’re doing it. We’re allowed to feel safe.”

That hug didn’t happen. And maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal.
But to me, it’s everything.