No, Thank you

I didn’t hate people — not exactly. But I’d grown deeply weary of a certain type of interaction. The kind where a man, often a stranger, felt the need to stop me, hover, insert himself between me and whatever I was doing… just to explain it back to me. Just to advise. 

I was just trying to buy some seed-starting trays. 

That’s it. One quick stop after school, no drama, just a five-minute errand at the local garden store. I had earbuds in, hoodie up, and my mind on tomatoes. I grow most of the veggies we eat at home, and I’d just built my first raised bed in the backyard. For once, I felt like I was getting things right — productive, focused, proud of what I knew. 

So, when the man stepped in front of the checkout line and said, “Starting some seeds?” It caught me off guard. 

I pulled one earbud out. “Yeah,” I replied quickly, not even slowing down. Just trying to squeeze around him. He didn’t move. 

“Can I give you some advice?” 

I stopped. Not because I wanted to hear it, but because that question — that question — was one I’d been asked a hundred times before. Usually by men older than me. Usually with the same tone, like they were being helpful, generous even, by offering their wisdom to a girl who, clearly, needed it. 

I looked at him. Khaki shorts. Red face like he worked outdoors sometimes, but not often. He had the vibe of someone who thought he was being charming. 

I said, “No, thank you.” 

His face froze like I’d just thrown a drink in it. “Oh. Okay,” he muttered, stepping back. 

The cashier awkwardly rang me up. No one said anything. I left, fast, heart pounding. Not because I was scared. Because I was exhausted. 

This kind of thing had been happening for years. 

When I was twelve, a guy at the farmer’s market leaned over my shoulder while I was looking at seedlings and said, “You don’t want to start from seed. Girls don’t have the patience for that.” My mom told him off, but I still remember how red my face burned. 

When I was fourteen, I went to buy a new trowel and the man at the store laughed and said, “You probably need one with a soft grip. Those little hands get sore, huh?” 

Even now, seventeen, shoulders broader, calluses on my palms from digging, boys at school still try to tell me how to grow things. Like when I brought in fresh basil for a cooking project and Tyler, who’s never kept a houseplant alive, told me I “should’ve pinched the tops sooner.” 

I wish I was making this up. 

It’s like some invisible rule exists where a guy sees a girl doing something — anything — and immediately believes she needs his opinion on it. Doesn’t matter if I’m wearing muddy boots or holding a grow light or just quietly minding my business. There’s always someone who wants to explain it back to me. 

And I’ve always been polite. Always. 

Until lately. 

Something in me changed this year. 

I think it started when I finished rebuilding the compost system in my backyard — by myself, using pallets and a drill I bought secondhand. It took a full weekend and my entire playlist of angry girl rock, but I did it. Every screw, every measurement. It stood solid in the corner of our yard, perfect. 

I remember standing there, hands on my hips, sweaty, proud, and thinking: Why do I keep pretending I don’t know what I’m doing? Why do I keep listening when they try to tell me? 

That day, I made myself a promise: If someone offers unsolicited advice, I’d say no. Politely. Clearly. Without apology. 

So when the guy at the garden store tried, I kept my promise. 

But here’s the thing no one tells you — even saying “no thank you” feels like rebellion when the world expects you to smile and nod. Especially as a girl. 

Because it doesn’t end with them walking away. 

After I left the store, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not just that guy, but all the little moments like it. All the micro-comments. The “You should try…” and the “Actually, what works better is…” 

It started to feel heavy. Not because of him, specifically. But because it’s everywhere. 

In math class, when I solve a problem and a guy double-checks it out loud, just in case. 

In science, when I explain something and the teacher listens more closely after a boy repeats it. 

At lunch, when I talk about the plants I’m growing and someone tries to quiz me, like I need to prove I’m legit. 

And I know, some people will say I’m overreacting. That they’re just “trying to help.” But here’s what they don’t get: I didn’t ask. I didn’t invite it. And when it happens every week, every year, it starts to feel like they’re not trying to help me — they’re trying to correct me. For existing confidently. For knowing something. For taking up space. 

That night, I sat on my back porch with the seed trays from the store. I labeled the rows: cherry tomatoes, jalapeños, rainbow chard. I pressed each seed into the soil like it was a quiet act of protest. 

No one hovered over me. No one explained anything. 

It was just me, the dusk, and the knowledge in my hands. 

A few days later, something small but important happened. 

At school, our science class started a mini gardening project — growing lettuce under grow lights. I’d done it a dozen times before, but I stayed quiet while everyone was figuring it out. 

Then one of the guys — a senior who always thinks he knows everything — said, “We should put the lights right on top of the trays. That way they’re closer.” 

I looked at the setup. It was way too close. They’d burn. 

I raised my hand. “Actually, they need to be at least six inches above, or the seedlings will cook.” 

He smirked. “You sure about that?” 

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve done it a few times.” 

He opened his mouth, probably to argue. 

But our teacher cut in. “She’s right. Give her space to lead this.” 

And just like that, the room shifted. Just a little. Just enough. 

I won’t pretend everything changed. I still get offered advice I don’t need. I still get interrupted. I still get doubted. 

But now I say no. Out loud. Without shrinking. 

Because I’ve stopped asking for space. 

I take it.