Montego Bay Meditations: Reclaiming My No - A Refection on Boundaries in Leadership

Sometimes the hardest truths arrive after the fact—long after the conflict has passed, long after the doors have closed. They arrive quietly, not with a bang, but with a persistent tug at your spirit. That’s how I’ve come to understand a situation that’s lingered in my mind and heart for months now.

The clarity came to me during a still morning in Montego Bay. With the ocean unfolding in front of me and space to breathe deeply, I could finally hear the part of me that had gone quiet during the chaos: the one that knew what happened, and what I needed to learn from it. It wasn’t a business failure. It wasn’t even personal betrayal. It was the slow erosion of my voice under the weight of a dynamic that, despite mutual effort, just didn’t work.

The Conflict That Wouldn’t Settle

For context, I once brought someone on board to help manage my growing practice because I genuinely believed in their talent and trusted their capacity to bring something powerful to the table. At first, they contributed meaningfully—bringing helpful systems, refining branding, and infusing the work with structure. But over time, something began to shift. We’d find ourselves in conflict and tensions began to surface more frequently. We approached leadership differently. Where I sought collaboration, they sometimes moved with autonomy. And when I expressed reservations or pulled back from a particular direction, the conversation would often circle back to a concern that I didn’t trust them.

It was said with sincerity and conviction:

“You have to trust me.”

“You need to trust the process.”

“This isn’t going to work if you can’t let go.”

Each time, it landed heavily and left me feeling uneasy. Not because I believed it to be true—but because I couldn’t find the words in the moment to explain why it didn’t feel accurate. I respected their contributions. I valued their insight. But I was also noticing something important inside myself: discomfort that wasn’t being acknowledged.

When Trust Isn’t the Issue—Agreement Is

With time and reflection, I realized the issue wasn’t trust. I did trust them. I trusted their skills, their experience, their expertise. I gave them access to my systems, delegated big tasks, and relied on them heavily. You don’t hand over keys to someone you don’t trust.

The real tension was about agreement—or rather, my lack of it.

And that distinction matters.

There were moments when decisions were made without my input, and I felt out of sync with the direction we were heading. When I expressed that, I wasn’t seeking control—I was seeking alignment. But instead of creating space for that difference, it felt like my concerns were interpreted as doubt in their capability, which couldn't have been further from the truth.

The People-Pleaser’s Pause

There’s a part of me—like many of us—that wants to avoid conflict. That wants to understand before being understood. That says, “Well maybe they’re right, maybe I’m overthinking.” That part is deeply compassionate. But in this context, it became complicit.

I found myself nodding, agreeing outwardly, while internally feeling unsettled. I understood the process. I understood the intention. But I didn’t agree with the decision. And I didn’t know how to make that distinction feel valid in the moment.

The reframe of healthy disagreement as distrust was subtle, and often unintentional, but deeply invalidating. Not gaslighting in a cruel sense—but a kind of emotional misattunement. It says, “The issue isn’t the decision—I just can’t work with your discomfort around it.” And if you're wired to keep the peace, you'll spend more energy trying to prove your trust than protecting your truth. That’s what I did. I internalized the tension instead of addressing it. I softened my instincts because I thought, “Maybe they see something I don’t.” What I really needed was the strength to say, “This isn’t about trust. It’s about choice."

Reclaiming the Right to Disagree - Setting Boundaries in Leadership

There’s a misconception that leadership always looks like confidence and command. But sometimes leadership is a quiet reckoning—a slow return to your own voice after it’s been talked over, even when you were the one holding the mic. It sometimes means honoring your voice even when it’s shaky. It means trusting your gut, even when you can’t fully explain it. It means knowing that disagreement isn’t a betrayal—it’s an essential part of collaboration and setting boundaries in leadership.

I wasn’t unclear. I wasn’t distrustful. I was discerning, and had a right to say no. And while I wish I could have found the words to express that in the moment, I now offer myself the grace of hindsight.

Why the Lingering Still Lingers

Even months later, I found myself frustrated—not just at what happened, but at why it still bothered me. Why did it continue to echo? What lingered after our paths diverged wasn’t resentment—it was self-doubt. I kept wondering: Should I have spoken up sooner? Could I have made my discomfort clearer? Was I somehow at fault for how things unfolded?

What I now understand is that I was grieving more than a professional split. I was grieving every time I’d made myself smaller for the sake of peace. I was grieving the moments I abandoned my own clarity because someone else’s certainty felt louder.

The waves didn’t argue. The sky didn’t question. They just held space while I reclaimed what was already mine. I knew. I just needed stillness to say it.

This realization didn’t come all at once. It arrived gently, during a quiet morning of reflection in Montego Bay. Surrounded by the stillness of the sea and the rhythm of my own breath, I was finally able to hear the truth beneath all the noise: I had been clear all along. I just needed space to remember that clarity doesn’t always need consensus. That moment gave me the permission I hadn’t known I was waiting for—to trust what I know, to honor my discomfort, and to reclaim my “no” without apology.

The Mantra I Carry Forward

I’ve come to see that agreement isn’t the measure of truth. That someone not understanding me doesn’t mean I wasn’t clear. That someone not accepting my boundary doesn’t make it invalid. So now, when echoes of that season return, I ground myself in this:

"I see what I couldn't see then. I trust what I know now. My 'no' is sacred, even if no one else agrees."

Letting That Be Enough

We were two capable, passionate people doing our best. But our paths, while temporarily aligned, were ultimately not the right fit for long-term collaboration. That doesn’t make either of us wrong. It just means we reached the end of that particular chapter.

I’m sharing this not to rehash the past, but to offer a window into the quiet, often unspoken moments of leadership that many of us face. The moments where clarity takes time, where boundaries are tested, and where our voices feel like they’re finding their way home. My hope is that in naming my own process, someone else might feel a little less alone in theirs. Because growth isn’t always about getting it right in the moment—it’s about honoring what you learn in the aftermath, and letting that wisdom shape the way forward.

Healing doesn’t always mean a happy ending or a full-circle moment. Sometimes all it offers is the opportunity to tell the truth—to yourself, with kindness. That was real. That was hard. And now it’s complete. No need to rewrite the past, just to believe myself in the present. And with that belief, I reclaim not just my story—but my voice.

This piece is part of the Montego Bay Meditations—a series born from quiet mornings, deep breaths, and honest questions. Each one was written from a place of stillness, truth, and the courage it takes to come home to yourself. If this resonated with you, I invite you to explore the other pieces in this series.

Written by Carlita L. Coley, LPC

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About the Author

I’m Carlita Coley—a Licensed Professional Counselor and founder of a private practice committed to holding space for healing and growth for the underserved. I experience clarity through the power of pause, the wisdom of lived experience, and the quiet strength that comes from speaking truthfully—first to ourselves, then to the world. When I’m not holding space for others, I’m often creating it for myself in places that restore me—like Montego Bay, where this reflection found its voice. This is part of my practice too: returning to my center, one honest moment at a time.