On the Other Side of Yes
One little, yet powerful word
Yes is a complete sentence.
Remember you as a 7-year-old? You were busy being you, right? You rode your bike, took dance classes, hid from the storms of life if you were in that type of house, or maybe you sat quietly in a corner with markers and big ideas. You, the child who was fearless in one moment, but maybe not all of them, had the dreams of a child. To drive a car, marry Prince Charming, or maybe to pet all of the dogs.
You, I hope, tried bowling and roller skating, sledding, and everything except the broccoli. I hope you fearlessly, tirelessly, with knobby knees and dirty ankles, went from this to that and back again.
And then, one day, so much faster than anyone thought it would happen, you were 17. You lived the life a 17-year-old lives — a job, a crush, a win, a loss, a success, a failure. A moment of glory, followed by a moment of mortification, wishing the world would swallow you right that moment. At 17, the world was a ride and you were driving, until the world was a ride and you wanted off.
Still, at 17, you knew some things. Probably, if we are taking a moment to tell the whole truth, you knew all the things. I know I sure did. There were things about the world that did not make sense, like curfew and ovulating, and things that did, like kissing and strawberry lip gloss.
The day I turned 27, I called my mom. I apologized for being a teenager, for ignoring her calls one too many times, and thanked her for always, without fanfare or fail, having dinner on the table at 5:30. I still, now well past 27, do not know exactly how she did that.
I remember being crushed at 27, absolutely crushed. I thought I'd be the perfect size, with the perfect wardrobe, job and life. I was not. Were you?
So, as I sit here today, way past 27, I think about the wonders of the world I have lived in. At age 7, our daily joy was running to the train tracks to catch the candy the caboose man threw us as he passed by. None of those things are part of my world now. I mean, I could run, but I'd rather not, and candy — I'd rather have some delicious olives, warmed in aromatic oil. The nonexistent caboose man is not throwing those. Sigh.
Color TV, computers, cell phones, and Cabbage Patch Dolls, just to keep the alliteration going. Air fryers and AI, Amazon and ankle socks. Seat warmers — my heavens, the seat warmers! I could go on and on, because life, when you stop and look at it, is pretty darn amazing. Women, like the ones celebrated in these pages, do jobs they aren't expected to do, and dads change diapers and know their children's allergies. It’s a whole new world.
What is ours right now, in this moment, no matter our exact age, weight or voting preference, is choice. We can choose to know what we know, do what we do, eat what we eat, watch what we watch, or we can shake the snow globe of life and do everything differently.
Isn't that amazing?
I met a woman today, quite by chance, in an online immersive experience room that I host. (How's that for a sentence 7 — or 17-year-old me — could not have said?) She retired from her job to write music with AI and is having the time of her life.
Did 7-year-old me have that on her list of dreams? She did not. She could not.
Did the women in this magazine dream that someday Julie would call them and say, "I think what you are doing is amazing enough to share"? I think not. But when she called, they said yes. And that right there, that little word, has all the power.
Yes has the power to take you to a Mahjong class, because that is taking our world by storm. Yes has the power to get you out of the crap job, off of the couch and away from the things you should walk away from. It's not the word no that has the power. It is the word yes.
Yes, I am going to try something new. Yes, I am going to stop allowing that to happen. Yes, I am going to try broccoli, or maybe, yes, I am going to give up broccoli — you decide.
There was a time, back when I was running our family, a daycare center, my parents' care plans, and speaking out for our community, that I thought the word no held all the answers. Thank you, but no, I can't serve on another committee. No, but thank you, I cannot attend the thing you like but I abhor. Saying no felt liberating, but let me tell you this.
Saying yes — well, saying yes not only feels powerful, it is powerful. The first time I tried it, I was under direction to say yes to me for an entire weekend. It started at the grocery store. I was afraid that if I really leaned into the activity that I'd buy chocolate cake and perhaps a box of wine. Instead, I said yes to my favorite but seldom-purchased snap peas and expensive Greek yogurt. I bought only the best stuff when I said yes to me.
It went on from there. Yes, I think I will go to bed early. Yes, I think I will go for a run, clean the basement, and fire the jerk. Yes, I will lift the weights, put down the grudge, and yes, yes, yes, I will be just a little more kind to me.
Yes became, like no, a complete and powerful sentence. My favorite one.
You, my friend, have been a precious 7-year-old, an out-too-late 17-year-old, and you have said yes to so very many things. But I bet, because like a 17-year-old, I happen to be an age when we just know things, that you seldom say yes to you. To what you want, need, and most of all, dream. You say yes to dishes, but not sitting too long with a book. You say yes to overtime, but not an extra day of vacation.
Yes.
The best of life is just on the other side of that one-word sentence. I hope the next time I see you out in the world, you will tell me what you said yes to. Will it be yes, I am stopping, yes, I am starting, or yes, my life is perfect just the way it is? I hope you will tell me that you thought about the life you wanted the 7-year-old to live, and the 17-year-old was sure they would live, and that you said yes to giving them the parts of their dream that would make you, the you that you are now, the very happiest you that you can be.
It's just on the other side of yes.
