I don’t usually say “no” out loud. Not like people imagine—with steely resolve or loud announcements.
But I speak quietly—in small decisions, in between invitations, or when I left several trivial texts unanswered.
When I moved to Taipei two decades ago (for work), I didn’t have a set list of goals. I arrived with curiosity and a bag full of lonely ambition. The first several months felt like a jumble of polite conversations and an endless stream of data on spreadsheets. I attended dinners with coworkers because I had to, not because I wanted to. I replied yes because of responsibility but no in my heart.
However, I gradually began to make other choices.
I stopped wasting my evenings with pointless nonsense. I found cafes with fogged-up windows and dim lighting where I could write. I stopped accepting weekend plans simply to avoid being alone. I began declining activities that diverted my attention away from what was important: reflection, art, and authentic experiences.
Some people express “no” by closing doors. I say it while slowly walking in the opposite direction.
I may not always know where I’m heading, but I do know what I’m no longer willing to participate in. That’s a start.
These days, my “no” does not imply rejection. It’s a diversion or a simple acknowledgment of the space I require to breathe, create, and exist.
I recall the moment I nodded and allowed him to sit across from me in that café. It was hardly anything. However, it was pregnant with meaning.
I had always said no to strangers, spontaneous encounters, and anything that threatened the careful solitude I had built around myself like armor. But that day, I didn’t.
I didn’t say “yes” aloud. I simply didn’t say “no”.
And sometimes, that’s okay.
Quiet Nod
It wasn’t a yes.
Just a twitch in my neck
and a rebellion beneath my breasts—
a dare whispered to the
soft animal of my body:
Stay.
You dragged the chair
and stirred something feral
I’d buried beneath work
and loneliness.
You sat and
asked nothing.
Still, I answered
by not running.
And maybe that’s how it starts—
without longing,
but with the smallest betrayal
of your own solitude.
Maybe the truest ‘no’ is the one we say to fear—so that something else can finally answer yes.
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Olivia's Atelier 
I especially liked this from your personal reflection, “I may not always know where I’m heading, but I do know what I’m no longer willing to participate in. That’s a start.” The first step in saying ‘no’ is opposite of the path of yes, sometimes figuring out the where-to can take time. This rang true for me, thank you. Your follow up poem was the perfect pairing.
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Thank you very much for reading. It means a lot to me that it resonated with you. I’ve always found that recognizing what we don’t want might be more grounding than seeking clarity. It’s the first act of self-preservation. The “where-to” can take a long time, perhaps a lifetime. It’s a journey.
I’m delighted the poem paired well. I didn’t want to overexplain; I just wanted to let the scene develop as it happened in real life.
Thanks again for being here. I appreciate your words more than you know.
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