I Have Spent All My Yeses (And None of Them on Myself)
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I have spent all my yeses—
issued them early,
lavishly,
as though consent were a renewable resource
and not a finite offering
with a body attached.
I said yes
before I knew the cost.
Before I understood
that agreement accumulates interest.
Before I learned
that some people build entire lives
on other people’s compliance.
My yeses were fluent.
Reflexive.
Well-trained.
They slid into conversations
where no one noticed
my no rehearsing itself silently
behind my teeth.
I said yes to keep the peace.
Yes to keep the door open.
Yes to being needed
more than being met.
Each yes felt small at the time—
a minute here,
a compromise there—
until I realized
I had financed entire structures
that did not include me
as a beneficiary.
I mistook usefulness for belonging.
Mistook adaptability for love.
Mistook the absence of conflict
for safety.
No one told me
that yes is not neutral.
That it moves weight.
That it leaves a mark
on the one who carries it.
By the time I noticed
the depletion,
my yeses were already spoken for—
embedded in expectations,
woven into routines,
assumed.
There is a particular grief
in realizing
you have been generous
with something essential
and forgotten to reserve any
for yourself.
Not because you were careless.
But because you were taught
that self-denial
was a form of virtue.
I am not ashamed
of the care my yeses contained.
They were sincere.
They were offered
in good faith.
But sincerity does not exempt us
from consequence.
Now, I am learning
the unfamiliar weight of no—
how it steadies the spine,
how it restores contour,
how it returns me
to myself.
My yeses are no longer public property.
They are not entry points.
They are not currency.
They are intentional now.
Sparse.
Earned.
And for the first time,
I am spending them
where they belong.
On rest.
On truth.
On the life
that waited patiently
while I said yes
to everyone else.
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