Dearest Reader,
People ask me all the time what I mean when I say “say no with love.”
And I love that question—not because I have a tidy answer, but because every time I’m asked, I have no choice but to come back to myself. For me, saying no with love means I can trust that I’ve taken the time to check in with a variety of things. With my energy. With my priorities. With how I want to feel in this season of my life. And from that place, I respond. The “love” part? That’s for me.
It took me years to realize that.
I used to think the “love” in say no with love was meant for the person I was saying no to. Like—let me say it gently so you won’t feel let down. Or worse, let me say no in a long, winding explanation that ends up draining me and overwhelming you. I’ve done that more times than I can count. But that wasn’t love. That was my people-pleasing pattern showing up in disguise. Again. This is life-long work for a reason.
As I’m sure many of you can relate, I used to say yes out of fear. Fear of disappointing someone. Fear that another chance might not come. Fear of the quiet that follows a boundary. (Funny how now, silence is one of the most powerful tools in my work. In fact, I’m building an entire workshop on silence as a skill for writers, if that interests you reply and let me know.)
Sometimes, I said yes simply because I didn’t know who I was without the doing.
In my studio, I get to work with writers from a wide spectrum of lived experiences, access levels, and goals. And again and again, I hear the same quiet confession: I feel guilty when I say no. As if turning something down means we’re ungrateful. Or selfish. Or arrogant. Or somehow blind to how rare and magical that opportunity might have been.
But most of the time, the thing we’re afraid of missing out on isn’t even aligned with us anymore because we’ve outgrown it.
That’s the part that still surprises me: how often I’ve outgrown something without realizing it. And I say “outgrown” intentionally. It doesn’t mean I wasted time, or that those things weren’t true for me at one point. It just means they stopped being true.
Jobs. Roles. Ways of being in relationships. Patterns that once helped me survive but were quietly keeping me small.
One of the earliest examples came in the late ’90s when I worked as a cook at a popular restaurant. I loved that job. I built friendships in the kitchen, I worked overtime, I felt like I belonged. Years later, after becoming a mom and going back to school, I found myself wanting that feeling again. So I reapplied, thinking it might bring back something familiar.
I got the job. But this time it was a total disaster.
The things that once lit me up—the fast pace, the loud kitchen banter, the grind—suddenly gave me a headache. I didn’t subscribe to that narrative anymore. I wasn’t that version of myself. But I hadn’t made peace with the leaving. And that made it all the more painful.
There have been friendships like that, too. Where I once felt held, but slowly began to feel like I was shrinking inside them. I don’t carry resentment, but I do carry reverence—for both what they gave me and for the courage it took to loosen my grip. And that loosening will look different for all of us.
Some people, places, and opportunities are only meant to be here for a specific amount of time. Everything has its season.
And then there’s the metaphor that always finds its way back to me: the piece of clothing tucked in the back of the closet. It once felt like home. But now, when I try to wear it, it cuts into my skin. I can’t breathe. Still, I hold onto it, thinking maybe—just maybe—it will fit again someday.
But I’m not meant to fit into something that no longer fits me.
And because we’re constantly moving through new phases—job transitions, grief and loss, birth, personal milestones, relationships (you name it, life is always lifing)—we have to keep checking in with ourselves. Again and again. Especially now, in the midst of our technological tornado, this kind of deep self-work isn’t just important—it’s as urgent as it gets.
This is the work. The deep, messy, slow, beautiful work. It doesn’t come with easeful conclusions or clear doorways. It’s subtle. It’s ongoing. And it almost always brings up grief.
What I’ve noticed is that when this kind of reckoning shows up—when something asks us to change—the first thing we let go of is our creative practice, and writers I see you here. Why is it we let go of the very thing that keeps us rooted. The thing we’ll never outgrow, because it isn’t something we do. It’s something we are.
And once it slips away, we tell ourselves we’ll come back to it.
But somehow, “later” keeps moving further and further out of reach.
So where do we begin?
We begin with honesty. With being able to say, this doesn’t feel right anymore. Or I’m not okay. Or even just, I don’t know, but I want to.
If you’ve ever told yourself, I’m fine. I don’t need to look too closely, I get it. I’ve been there too. And every time I’ve said that, I’ve discovered it was fear talking. Because deep down, I knew I did need to look.
Saying no with love didn’t solve everything. But it cracked something open.
And now, saying no with love has become more than just a phrase—it’s a method. A steady, intentional practice that flows through every part of the work I do at Breathing Space Creative. For many of the writers I work with, this shows up in:
- developing and expanding an early book idea or rough draft
- building out a personalized writing craft toolkit
- mapping out an aligned and sustainable book launch plan
- shaping the business of writing—what I call your Writer Ecosystem
Whether we’re unpacking a creative idea, a life shift, or a long-held belief, this self-work is at the heart of it all. This is how you create not just for now, but for life—and always on your terms.
And just like everything else I offer, it meets each writer where they are. Everyone has their own volume knob. How deep we go depends entirely on you.
So I’ll leave you with this:
Reflective Question: What are you holding onto right now—not because it fits, but because it’s familiar?
With love and stillness,
Chelene
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