you said yes again today — the meeting, the favor, the plan you didn't want. and between them asking and you saying yes, you never decided anything. a second later you didn't feel like yourself.
i know because it's mine too. someone asks me for something, and the yes is out of my mouth before i've decided a thing.
and a yes that isn't yours doesn't start the drift. it just shows it to you. i was already doing all kinds of things without deciding them — the yes is just the loudest one. that's the real cost. not the meeting. all the stuff i do without choosing it.
here's what it isn't. it isn't politeness. it isn't being easygoing. and it isn't weakness — you're not broken, and nobody is doing this to you.
it's fear, moving faster than you. the guilt. everyone already going along, and you not wanting to be the only one who didn't — the fear of being alone in the room. the yes was trained to come first, years of it, so the body answers before the head catches up. and by the time it does, the yes is already out of your mouth — and now you have to do it.
i couldn't fix it with promises or willpower — the yes was there before i ever got to choose. what i found instead is smaller: there's a half-second between the question and the yes. sometimes i catch it, sometimes i don't. but it's there, and you can practice it like anything else.
the practice is four small steps. notice the drift. touch one fixed point — a desk edge, the middle of your chest, a watch band. say "here." then return — the thing in front of you gets you back. you're here again — no move to make. that's the whole thing.
honestly: the yes still gets out before my hand gets there. noticing after still counts. that's the practice — it isn't about never slipping. it's about slipping and starting again.