“Hey, are you free Saturday?”
“Yeah, I should be.” That was usually how fast it happened.
I hadn’t checked the calendar. I hadn’t talked to my wife. And if I’m being truthful, I hadn’t even decided whether I wanted to go. But somehow I’d already said yes.
Then later that evening, Saturday would start taking shape in my head.
There goes the afternoon. “What time do we have to leave?” “How late are we going to be out?” And eventually: “Why did I say yes to that?”
For a long time, I thought I needed to get better at saying no.
Turns out, that wasn’t quite the problem. I needed to stop answering before I knew my answer.
My yes was faster than I was.
I don’t know when I got so good at giving people an immediate answer.
Maybe it comes from years of being dependable. Someone needs something? “Sure.” Someone asks for help? “No problem.” Plans Saturday? “Sounds good.”
I like being someone people can count on.
But somewhere along the way, being agreeable became a reflex. There wasn’t much space between the question and my answer.
Sometimes there wasn’t any.
Then I’d spend the next few days trying to make myself feel better about something I’d already agreed to. That’s a strange way to make a decision.
Once I noticed it, I started seeing it everywhere.
And the funny thing was, I didn’t want to say no to everything. There were dinners I wanted to go to. People I wanted to see.
Things I was glad I’d said yes to.
I just had trouble telling the difference in the moment. Because “yes” had gotten there first. That’s when I tried something almost embarrassingly simple.
I stopped answering right away.
Ten minutes was usually enough.
There’s nothing special about ten minutes.
Five might work.
Twenty might be better.
I just needed enough time for the first answer to wear off. So when someone asked me to do something, I started saying:
“Let me get back to you.”
That was it. No excuse. No elaborate story about what I might have going on. Just no answer yet. At first, it felt oddly uncomfortable. Like I was leaving someone standing on the porch while I decided whether to open the door.
Then I noticed something. Nobody cared. They’d say, “Okay.” And life would continue.
But now I had enough room to ask a different question. Not: Can I do this? I could do most of it. That had always been the problem.
The better question was: “Do I want to give Saturday afternoon to this?”
Sometimes the answer was an easy yes. I’d picture the dinner, the people, the drive over—and I wanted to go.
Other times, I’d catch myself bargaining before I’d even replied.
Maybe we can leave early.
Maybe it won’t take that long.
Maybe something will come up.
I’ve learned to pay attention when I’m already looking for the exit from something I haven’t entered yet. The ten minutes didn’t give me the answer.
They gave my answer a chance to catch up.
I still say yes. I just mean it more.
This hasn’t turned me into someone who says no to everything.
I wouldn’t want that. I still say yes plenty. But now when I do, there’s less static around it. And when the answer is no, I’m learning that it doesn’t need a closing argument.
“I can’t this time.” “Thanks for asking, but I’m going to pass.”
Most people seem perfectly capable of surviving those sentences. The bigger difference comes later. Saturday arrives, and I’m not standing in the bedroom getting dressed while wondering how I got myself into this.
That has been worth more than I expected.
Because every yes takes up a little piece of your life. Sometimes it’s only two hours. An afternoon. A drive across town and back.
But two hours feels different to me now than it did twenty years ago.
Not because every hour has to be precious or productive. Quite the opposite. I’ve spent enough years asking whether I can fit one more thing in.
These days, I’m more interested in whether I want it there in the first place.
So here’s the small thing I’d try: The next time someone asks for your time, don’t answer right away.
Give yourself ten minutes.
You don’t need to use those ten minutes to build a case for saying no. Just picture the thing you’re being asked to do.
Picture Saturday afternoon. The drive over. The people. The time it will take.
Then notice whether you’re looking forward to it...or already figuring out how early you can leave. That’s usually useful information.
And if you still don’t know?
“Let me get back to you.”
Six ordinary words.
I used to think they were a way of putting off an answer. Now I think they’re something else.
They’re a way of making sure the answer I give is actually mine.