Early in our relationship, my now-husband and I were sitting on his loveseat (I still thought of it that way — haha) in our second-floor apartment in Arlington, Massachusetts, both of us trying hard to be polite, wrapping our defensiveness in civility.
(Oof! Can you feel it?)
Jeffrey was going through a divorce. I was 47, a new stepmom who was somewhere between still wanting, and grieving not having, a child of my own.
Talk about love. And talk about landmines.
I don't even remember what the disagreement was, and that's not the point. What I do remember is the feeling: wanting connection but not wanting to cave.
Finally, without a word, Jeffrey reached for my hand. And before I could think, I gave him my... pinky.
And then we burst out laughing.
The pinky has become an important ritual in our relationship.
It's our way not to pretend everything's fine when it isn't — and still to say, I want connection.
The pinky isn't a bypass or a collapse, but a micro-move toward reconnection that honors both the conflict and the relationship. A kind of nervous-system bridge that says: I am angry and I love you. Or, I'm not ready to make up, but I want to be. (And the laughter usually helps everything.)
The pinky is a bridge: it brings repair into disconnection while honoring the need for clarity about what feels off. Wrong. Hurt.
If I jump to pretending everything is fine when it isn’t really, if I’m going through the motions of making up at the cost of my own truth, then who even is in the relationship?
I might be physically present, but I'm performing a version of myself I think used to think will keep me safe, keep me loved, keep me belonging.
Real connection requires real people. And real people have preferences. Limits.
Needs that sometimes conflict. Moments when we think, no, that doesn't work for me, or I don't want to, or that's not what I believe.
Our pinky gesture—we both use it now, when needed 😅—works because it comes from equally wanting connection (yes) and honoring disagreement (no).
Which is why I've been thinking so much about our Safe to Say No workshop.
A week ago, to the day, a group of smart, self-aware, grown-ass women (myself included) practiced saying no.
There was a reason this was the last class and not the first: We had to pass through safety to get to boundaries. (Without a grounding in safety, saying no is—at best—just going through the motions. Feeling safe is what allows no to be clear and true.)
There we were, in the Zoom room, our faces arranged like Brady Bunch intro mugs.
I'd made a cheat sheet with ten different ways to say no so that if anyone froze or got scared, they could just look down and pick a line to read.
But that's not what happened.
Because these women were, in fact, brave and authentic, in addition to being smart and self-aware.
No one, that I could tell, even glanced at their script. Instead, they spoke their no as truthfully as they possibly could. Practicing not apologizing. Stopping before over-explaining.
We watched each other squirm and laugh nervously, and yet we spoke:
No, I won't be able to pick you up.
No, I won't be sending you the artwork you see behind me.
No, I'm not going to be able to loan you my car.
We held our breath. We exhaled. We cheered each other on. And a week later, I'm still thinking about it.
Here's what I keep coming back to:
Having a hard time saying no isn't a mindset problem. It's a nervous-system pattern.
Because if you learned early in life that safety comes from agreement, no wonder it's hard to disagree.
If you learned early on that the price of belonging is being quiet, no wonder it's hard to speak up.
If you're brown and your parents were immigrants, no wonder you have eyes in the back of your head when you walk down the street.
If you grew up in high-control religion and/or authoritarian dictatorship, no wonder saying no still sounds like disobedience to a young part of you.
And if you grew up in patriarchy — hello everyone! — no wonder...
All the no wonders!
The more I tune into the relationship between authenticity and boundaries — in myself, in my clients — the more I see something tender underneath:
We're not afraid of saying no because we don't care. The opposite: we're afraid because we care so much about connection, belonging, and peace.
Which brings me back to the pinky.
I used to believe that anger was a sin, and that good relationships don't have conflict. I used to think that being in relationship meant being in agreement.
But real safety includes the freedom to disagree.
To have different beliefs.
To be different.
Anger is our bodies' brilliant way of saying, Heads up! Something matters to me here. Or, Something's off. Or, Something's not right.
It's the flare letting us know to slow down and pay attention.
What about you? Do you have something like a pinky move? (Hit reply and tell me. I’d love to grow my pinky-move repertoire.)
Maybe it's a text that says "still mad but still here."
Maybe it's showing up to coffee with your sister even when you're hurt.
Maybe it's telling a friend, "I need some space, but I'm not going away."
The gesture matters less than what it does: it honors your connection and respects your boundary. And when you don’t know exactly what you want your boundary to be, it buys you the time to find clarity.
Until next time,
xoHeidi
PS. The pinky story is told with my husband's thumbs-up.
PPS. I'm shaping what comes next in my writing and in my programs, and I'd love your help. (Thanks to you if you've already taken me up on this — I have loved our convos!)
Especially if you come from a high-control system or religion, or if you're living with a nervous system that feels stuck in anxiety or shutdown, I'd love to chat.
If you're open to a free 30-minute Zoom, I'll ask a few gentle, inviting questions and then mostly listen. I'm pretty sure you'll find it clarifying and grounding for yourself — and what you share will help me understand what my people most need and want right now.
There's no pitch, no pressure—just curiosity and care.
PPP(!)S. Do you like getting The Awarewithall? Forward this issue (or another favorite) to your friends.
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(This piece was edited with AI collaboration.)