Maybe They’ll Say Yes

In the weeks I’ve been here, looking at houses has become another full-time job.

New ones. Old ones. Big ones. Small ones. I’m one who definitely pays attention to how I feel in a house, but at this point, they’ve all kind of blurred together.

Except one.

You know the one I just couldn’t get out of my head. The one every other house had to compete with. The one I had already imagined Saturday morning pancakes before we even left the driveway. The one that felt like home before it was ever ours.

The problem, of course, was the price.

It had also been sitting on the market for months.

Our realtor encouraged us to make an offer.

We hesitated.

Making an offer on a house feels oddly vulnerable. It’s not just numbers on a piece of paper. It’s admitting you want something. It’s risking that what you have to offer isn’t enough.

I spend my days helping people navigate uncertainty, but I’ll be the first to admit my own nervous system doesn’t love it.

Our realtor patiently answered all of our questions, walked us through the process and reassured me that we were protected.

“So…” I finally asked. “They’ll probably say no, right?”

There was a long pause.

“Mary Beth” she replied. “They could counter.”

She paused. “Or maybe they’ll say yes.”

Maybe they’ll say yes.‍ ‍

Her words caught me off guard.

Not because I thought she knew something I didn’t or that we’d get the house. But because I realized I hadn’t even considered that we might. In that moment, I realized it wasn’t just about real estate anymore.

As we waited to hear about the house, I caught myself living from an old story. One that had become very good at preparing for disappointment, managing expectations, and assuming the answer would probably be no before it even arrived.

And somewhere along the way, I had forgotten about all of the yeses that had brought me here.

Fear has a way of editing our memory.

That surprised me.

Because the last decade of my life has been one long practice of saying yes.

Yes to sobriety.

Yes to building a practice I believe in.

Yes to taking risks.

Yes to moving across the country in search of something that felt more true.

So many yeses.

And yet there I was assuming the answer would be no.

This moment reminded me that growth isn’t about erasing our old patterns.

It’s about noticing when they’ve returned.

Recognizing them for what they are—old, protective armor.

Then remembering I don’t live there anymore.

The sellers did say no.

We didn’t get the house.

I was disappointed. I’d already started imagining a life there.

But what has stayed with me isn’t the rejection. It’s how quickly old stories can resurface—even after years of writing new ones.

Growth doesn’t mean fear never speaks again. It means recognizing its voice without letting it make the decisions.

Growth is learning to leave room for another possibility.

I’ve been wondering what might change if we left just a little more room for that.

Maybe they’ll say yes.