— Mom, what’s your biggest fear?
My ten-year-old son’s voice cut through the quiet air of an ordinary afternoon.
I answered without blinking:
— Snakes.
He paused for a moment, then looked at me intently and said:
— I meant one of those fears you can’t see.
I froze.
There are questions that strip you of everything you know and return you to who you are. This was one of them.
I don’t know how my child knew I had invisible fears.
That I carry silences I sometimes confuse with diplomacy.
That I give others space until I disappear from the landscape of my own comfort.
That I smile and say “sure, no problem,” even when my whole body is screaming “I don’t want to.”
It took me a while to find an honest answer.
— I’m afraid to say “no” to people. Afraid they won’t like me anymore. Or worse, that they won’t love me anymore.
He received the answer with the same seriousness lion cubs show when learning their first hunting rules.
No moral. No criticism. No desire to “fix me.”
He just sat in thought.
The next day, while picking up my kids from school, his brother insisted that once we got home, he wanted to play on his tablet. When I said “no,” the crying and yelling began.
I felt the temptation to give in, to avoid conflict, to preserve the peace.
That well-rehearsed reflex of backing down to stay loved.
But I stood my ground:
— No! You know very well you’re only allowed on weekends.
— All my friends and classmates are allowed! You’re the only one who’s so strict! I don’t like you! I hate you!
My older son looked at me with admiration and said, with disarming calm:
— Good job, mom! You conquered your fear!
At first, I didn’t understand what he meant — then I remembered the fear I had shared with him the day before.
Tears welled up as I realized my son had seen my vulnerability. He had seen me.
He recognized in a mundane gesture something I had buried deep inside me: the inability to say “no.”
And I’ve done that so many times, when I should have chosen myself.
The paradox is that I don’t necessarily have trouble setting boundaries with my children.
I’ve learned to be a mother without confusing love with permission.
But in relationships with adults, friends, coworkers, acquaintances, sometimes even strangers, I still feel indebted to say “yes.”
If I refuse, I feel guilty.
If I ask, I feel like I’m a burden.
If I say I can’t take it anymore, I imagine they’ll turn their backs on me.
And in this quiet choreography, I give more and more of myself, to avoid losing what I believe keeps me alive: belonging, acceptance, love.
But my child felt all of this. He sensed it, maybe because he lived it with me.
Maybe because our fears can’t be buried, only passed on.
Another day, my son packed a box of candy in his backpack.
I saw it there, and I did something different than usual.
I didn’t say anything. I left it there, as if I hadn’t seen it.
When he came home, he said:
— Mom, I need to tell you something. Today I took some candy to school and shared it with my friends during break. All the kids swarmed me, and I gave candy to everyone. I was left with nothing.
I didn’t say anything. I looked at him with empathy and nodded. No questions. No lectures.
— I realize, he continued, that maybe I have the same fear as you. And it’s even bigger than my fear of heights. Next time, I’ll save some for myself first, then share with the others.
I smiled, and felt love coursing through every cell in my body.
We live in a culture that rewards constant availability, quick responses, presence.
We’re trained to be helpful, not to be “too difficult,” “too sensitive,” “too focused on ourselves.”
We say “yes” with a smile and a silent wound in our chest.
We say “of course” when all we want is a “no” that would protect us.
And one day, a ten-year-old told me he admired me because I said “no.”
And suddenly, that “no” became an act of courage.
It became a model.
It became healing.
The truth is, it’s not my fear of snakes that defines me, nor my fear of heights, which I’m familiar with too.
It’s the fear of being excluded.
Of being seen as selfish, difficult, intense.
The fear of losing the love I’ve learned to earn through relentless effort.
But when I faced it, my child told me I was brave.
And something changed. In me, but also in him.
Because I allowed myself to be vulnerable in front of him. I let him look into my soul.
And I let him see me practicing a boundary.
And then, inside, in that place where every “yes” and every “no” begins, a new voice appeared.
His voice, admiring me when I face my fears.
And maybe someday, my own.