What They See

Jordan says yes to everything. Extra shifts at work? Yes. Last-minute favor? Yes. Can you help me move? Yes. Lend me money? Yes. Drop everything for me? Yes, yes, yes.

Friends have started to take advantage. They know Jordan won’t say no, so they ask for more. And more. And when Jordan finally, desperately tries to set a boundary, they get offended. “You’ve never had a problem helping before. What changed?”

Other people see someone without a spine. Weak. Easily manipulated. A doormat who won’t stand up for themselves.

“Jordan needs to learn to say no,” they say, as if it’s that simple. As if weakness is the problem.

What They’re Avoiding

Jordan’s father had a temper. Not violent—worse. Cold. Withdrawing. Punishing with silence and disappointment that felt like abandonment.

Jordan learned early: Love is conditional. It must be earned, constantly, or it will be taken away.

Saying no meant days of icy silence. Disappointing him meant the terrifying sense that you no longer existed in his world. So Jordan became the good child. The helpful one. The one who anticipated needs before they were spoken.

It worked. Jordan earned love through usefulness. And the lesson stuck.

Now, every “no” feels like rejection waiting to happen. Every boundary feels like a door slamming in their face. Saying yes is exhausting, but saying no is terrifying—it means risking that someone will decide Jordan isn’t worth keeping around.

If I’m not useful, what am I?

This is the question underneath every yes. The belief that love is transactional, that people only stay if you’re valuable to them, that your worth is measured in what you provide.

The Internal Dialogue

I know they’re using me.

Jordan isn’t naive. They see it happening. They notice the friends who only call when they need something, the coworker who never returns favors, the family member who guilts them into endless help.

But what if I say no and they leave?

This is the fear that overrides everything else. Being used feels bad. Being abandoned feels unbearable.

I’m so angry.

The rage builds quietly. Every yes that should be a no. Every favor that isn’t reciprocated. Every time Jordan’s own needs get buried under everyone else’s. The anger has nowhere to go, so it turns inward—into resentment, into self-loathing, into the exhausted belief that this is just who they are.

I don’t know who I am without being needed.

This is the deepest fear. That if they stopped helping, stopped accommodating, stopped saying yes, there would be nothing left. No identity. No value. No reason for anyone to stay.

The Moment

Jordan’s best friend asks them to dog-sit for two weeks. Again. Jordan has already said yes three times this year, rearranging their life each time. They open their mouth to say yes.

But something different comes out: “I can’t this time.”

The friend’s face changes. “Seriously? I really need this, Jordan. You’ve never said no before.”

And there it is—the guilt, the pressure, the implication that saying no makes Jordan a bad friend.

Jordan’s heart is racing. But they hold the boundary. “I know. But I need this time for myself.”

The friend is annoyed. She finds someone else. She’s a little cold for the next week.

And Jordan waits for the abandonment. For the friendship to end. For the proof that saying no means losing love.

But then, slowly, things normalize. The friend comes around. And something shifts in Jordan: She stayed. Even when I wasn’t useful.

It’s a small moment. But it’s evidence against a lifetime of fear.

The Truth

The people pleaser isn’t weak. They’re wounded. Every yes is an attempt to earn love they once learned was conditional. Every boundary they can’t set is a scar from a time when boundaries meant losing everything.

We call people pushovers without asking what happened that made them believe their worth depends on usefulness. We tell them to “just say no” without understanding that to them, no feels like self-destruction.

Sometimes the person who can’t set boundaries is the person who once lived in a world where boundaries were punished, where love had to be bought, where safety meant making yourself indispensable.

They don’t need judgment. They need proof that they’re valuable even when they’re not being useful. That people will stay even when they say no. That love can be unconditional.

Who is Jordan? Someone learning that relationships aren’t transactions. That real love doesn’t require constant payment. That saying no doesn’t make you unlovable—it just reveals who was only there for what you could provide.