Learning to Take Up Space

I’ve been thinking a lot about how often we make ourselves small.

Not loudly. Not intentionally. Just quietly. In the pauses. In the apologies. In the way we rush ourselves so no one else has to wait. In the way we soften our needs, lower our voices, and fold our edges so we don’t take up too much space.

This morning made it clear for me.

I walked into the breakroom to get hot water for my tea. Yes, still on that kick. I keep telling myself it’s slowly becoming a habit. There was a woman at the Keurig making her morning coffee. Ordinary moment. Everyday routine. She turned, saw me waiting, and immediately said, “Oh sorry, I’ll hurry up.”

I told her, “You’re fine. No rush.”

But she rushed anyway. Grabbed her cup quickly. Wiped the counter. Made herself smaller.

And it stayed with me.

Because she wasn’t being rude. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was just existing.

Taking up a shared space. Doing the same thing I was about to do. She had every right to take her time, and I had the ability to wait. Yet something in her body told her she needed to move faster. To apologize. To disappear as quickly as possible.

That moment is everywhere if you start looking for it.

It’s in the way we apologize before we speak. In the way we say yes when we mean no. In the way we avoid attention, not because we don’t deserve it, but because we were taught it was safer not to need it.

Call it conditioning. Call it generational patterns. Call it survival. Many of us learned early on that being low maintenance was praised, while being visible came with consequences.

So we learned to shrink.

But here’s the part we forget. Shrinking is a habit, not a life sentence.

As adults, we are allowed to stop doing it.

Not shrinking doesn’t mean being loud or aggressive or selfish. It means letting yourself exist at your natural size. It means allowing your thoughts, needs, preferences, and timing to matter as much as anyone else’s.

And this is where “no” comes in.

Because saying no is often the first place we stop shrinking.

We say no to avoid the spotlight on our worth. We say no to things that drain us so we can say yes to what fills us. We say no to people and spaces where we have to perform, pretend, or minimize ourselves just to belong.

Saying no is not shutting people out. It’s drawing lines so you don’t keep folding yourself smaller to stay included. It’s choosing alignment over approval. It’s deciding you don’t need to earn rest, space, or respect.

Boundaries aren’t walls. They’re structure. They hold you upright. They keep you from collapsing inward every time someone else has an opinion, expectation, or need.

When you don’t have boundaries, you shrink without noticing. You overextend. You overexplain. You apologize for things that never required an apology in the first place.

This shows up everywhere.

In the way we compare our lives to someone else’s. In the way we talk ourselves out of posting, speaking, trying, or starting. In the way we tell ourselves we’re not ready, not qualified, not interesting enough to be seen.

But you don’t need to be smaller to be accepted.

If something worked for you in the past and doesn’t work now, you’re allowed to change it. Growth isn’t betrayal. It’s honesty. It’s listening to yourself instead of overriding yourself.

If you want to share your life online, do it for you. If you want to take up space in a room, take it. If your path looks different, that doesn’t make it wrong. There is value in your story exactly as it is, right now.

Wear clothes that fit your body today. Not the body you’re waiting for. Start the business even if you’re scared. Speak up even if your voice shakes. Fear doesn’t mean stop. It usually means this matters.

Not shrinking is a daily practice. It’s choosing to exist fully, even when it feels uncomfortable. It’s letting yourself be seen without apologizing for it.

And maybe the most important part is this.

You don’t have to earn your right to take up space.

You don’t have to be quieter, easier, or smaller to be worthy.

Be the person you needed when you were younger. The one who stood firm. The one who didn’t rush herself. The one who said, “I belong here.”

Because you do.