I learned to say no and not care what other people think: why did it take so long? | Emma Brockes

I wanted to do something that I knew would piss people off. It was the right thing to do; I was quite convinced of this fact. I was also convinced that, in the language used to impose clumsy decisions, I had "every right" to do so. If I did this particular thing, it would make my life easier, but it would also lead to disapproval from others. I can do this, I told myself. Actually, no, I can't. Wait a second, yes I can! Wait, no. Oh! For God's sake. OK, I'll do that tomorrow.

For some reason this summer, that particular dynamic is one that I see coming up all the time. I live in the US, but my social group is dominated by Brits and Australians, who I suspect have a harder time than Americans with certain types of assertiveness. The majority of Americans I know can change their minds about something, or outright deny it, without dragging themselves through an internal Navy Seal-style obstacle course. Brits and Australians I know - particularly, but not exclusively, women - find it almost impossible to make a clean decision when they know it will result in the anger or disappointment of others.

A few details: An east coast friend who, after saying yes to a wedding in California, wanted to back out when her circumstances changed. Another friend dealing with incoming tenants, who wanted to tell them that their last minute requests for furniture moving were unreasonable. And my own situation, in which I wanted to remove my children from a summer camp they didn't like, which I knew would be considered by the organizers as "abandonment". In each of these circumstances, it didn't matter whether the people on the other end of the exchange were strangers or friends; the three of us were equally reluctant to upset them.

This situation has, of course, to do with the fear we all have of being hated, and how much we let's go to escape it. I've had entire relationships with people just to avoid the embarrassment of turning them down. I did this thing you should never do: say yes, regret it, come back to say no, meet resistance, freak out and say "actually, don't worry, it's fine". This ushers in the worst of all outcomes: not getting what you want, all while looking like a wobbly asshole.

If I feel like now being above that, the jury is still out. But early signs are good, probably, in part, because of the pandemic. After two years of not traveling or going out much, many of us respond to invitations and opportunities that present themselves differently than before. Expectations have changed. Plans have been changed. We've all gotten used to being frustrated and disappointed. Somewhere in there, saying no just got easier. In light of all of this, now is a good time for a hard boundary reset.

I suspect my willingness to do what seems difficult is not as than a function of age. I don't have the time or energy I once had to build lavish fantasies about someone else hating me. We assume that others are more fragile than us; that a single disappointment will break them. We also overestimate the place that each of us takes in the imagination of others, even among our close friends and family. People have lives. They are just as obsessed with themselves as we are. Not going to a friend's wedding because it would mean missing out on a higher priority is a completely justifiable decision. If the bride is upset, she'll get over it.

So here's my novelty: Before you say or do what you're afraid to do, you must sit down with the discomfort of fallout. You have to respect the other person's right to be annoyed, recognize it as the cost of your action, and assume that it will pass much faster than your weird angst about it. You have to believe that the outcome – getting the thing you want, which you believe is the best – is worth a few moments of discomfort. That's good.

I got my kids out of summer camp. The organizers have ghosted me. No one died. And There you go. I'm 46 and finally - finally - the thought "but what if they're mad at me?" might stop factoring so much into my decision-making.