A quiet cup of tea inside Romeo — the kind of moment that only exists when you’ve learned to say no first.
For years I said yes to dinner out even on the wrong days. Not because I wanted to go, not because I had the energy — but because saying no all the time made me feel guilty. I’d go, I’d smile, I’d stay until the end. And the next day I’d pay a bill none of the people at that dinner ever saw coming.
What I didn’t understand back then is that the yes didn’t end there.
With an autoimmune disease, energy isn’t a mood. It’s like carrying a fixed amount of cash for the day — and every yes is a purchase. Except you don’t pay for it right away: you pay later, when you realize there’s nothing left for the other ten things you actually needed. The walk you skip. The dinner you can’t cook anymore, so you order something that sits heavy in your stomach. The message to a friend you keep putting off. The quiet you needed to recharge, and didn’t get that day.
I’m not the only one who’s figured this out. In 2003, a woman living with lupus, Christine Miserandino, explained this same thing with an image that’s now known around the world: the “spoon theory.” She handed her friend a bunch of spoons and asked her to walk her through her day — except every action, even getting dressed or taking a shower, cost her a spoon from the pile. When you have a chronic illness, sometimes the spoons are already gone before the day even starts.
Before my diagnosis, I decided whether to say yes just by checking how I felt in the moment. Now I ask a different question — almost like someone managing an electrical system with limited power: if I turn this on, what will I have to turn off? It’s not a selfish question. It’s just the right one, when the energy you have each day isn’t the same as the energy of the person in front of you.
I’ve learned to recognize the signals that tell me I need to say no: feeling drained after talking to someone; catching myself over-explaining; feeling the guilt show up just from thinking about saying no; someone brushing off what I’m going through. By the time those signals show up, it’s usually already too late — I’m paying for a yes I said two days earlier.
So I changed the question I ask myself before answering anyone.
Not “can I do this?” — because in the moment the answer is almost always yes, there’s always a way to push through.
But: “what will this yes cost me tomorrow, and am I willing to pay it?”
The phrases I use now to say no aren’t excuses I owe anyone. They’re boundaries, period:
“I don’t have the energy to explain today.”
“I need you to believe me, not to fully understand.”
“No today means no, not maybe.”
“I can’t” — is a complete sentence. Nothing else needs to follow.
You don’t have to convince anyone. You don’t have to make the whole world understand what you live with every day. You just have to protect what’s left.
If you’ve spent years saying yes because saying no felt like letting down someone you love, you’re not ungenerous. You just never stopped to do the math.
Next time you’re about to say yes to something, try pausing for a second before you answer. Don’t ask yourself “can I do this?” Ask: “what will I have to give up tomorrow, if I say yes today — and am I willing to pay for it?”
Sources
Miserandino, C. (2003). The Spoon Theory. But You Don’t Look Sick. https://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/
National Center on Health, Physical Activity and Disability (NCHPAD). (2025). Spoon Theory: A New Way to Think About Your Daily Energy. https://www.nchpad.org/resources/spoon-theory-a-new-way-to-think-about-your-daily-energy/
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