I’m in my late sixties now, and I find myself looking back at these small decisions, these little rebellions, and wondering if they were actually bigger than I ever let myself believe. For years, decades even, I was the administrative assistant who *always* volunteered. Office parties? I’d bake my famous lemon bars, organize the Secret Santa, make sure everyone felt included. It was part of my identity, you know? The glue. Especially at my last job, with Mr. Henderson. He was a good boss, a really good man. When my marriage fell apart, when I was in the thick of that awful divorce, he was incredibly understanding. Gave me space, never made me feel like I was a burden. He was genuinely kind, and I felt such a loyalty to him, a real sense of wanting to repay that kindness, to be indispensable. But then, something shifted in me, maybe five years before I retired. I just… stopped. One day, I just didn’t sign up to organize the holiday party. Didn’t offer to bring anything. I’d still *attend*, still smile and chat, but the proactive, take-charge, make-it-happen part of me just withered away when it came to those events. I remember seeing the look on Mr. Henderson’s face, not angry, not disappointed really, just a kind of mild surprise, like he was noticing a change he hadn’t expected. And I felt a pang of guilt, a real, sharp twist in my gut. Like I was letting him down, letting down the man who had seen me through my lowest point. He never said a word, of course. He was too gracious for that. But I knew. I knew he noticed my absence from that particular role. And the truth is, I *wanted* to stop. More than I wanted to continue. Is that awful? Is it selfish? To just… decide you’re done with something, even when it’s tied up with gratitude and a history of support? I spent so many years at home before that, raising my children, and I think a part of me, a very deep, quiet part, resented feeling obligated to be the social orchestrator even at work. It felt like an extension of all those years where my identity was so wrapped up in making sure everyone else was comfortable, everyone else was happy. I never told anyone this, never even hinted at it. Just quietly, almost imperceptibly, retreated from that particular spotlight. And sometimes, even now, I wonder if that small act of withdrawal was actually a profound statement, a silent scream from a woman who was finally, finally deciding she was just… done. And whether that makes me a terrible person for feeling that way about someone who was so good to me. Do we ever truly know why we do what we do? Or what it costs us, or others, when we finally just say *no* without saying anything at all?