A Lesson From My Cafe

For many weeks, I'd been agonizing over a draft article about a business I'd run that had eventually (and quickly) closed. I wanted to write a piece about what I'd learned from that experience, but I was unable to get far. After discarding many drafts, I had to face the truth: I don't like thinking about it. Memories of that failed business bring up unwanted emotions like shame and guilt (those of you who associate your value with your accomplishments might relate). However, every now and then, someone asks me, "How's your cafe?" and I give a half-baked answer (no pun intended) about how we had to shut it down. It's quite unlike me not to dissect this experience and get to the bottom of these emotions—my way of navigating through crises is to tune into my emotions, allow myself to feel the feelings (to a fault, maybe), and articulate my thoughts and emotions. It's in putting it into words that truly helps me grasp it and move on. Perhaps it's because I'd never done this when the cafe closed that it remained a sore spot. I digress. Now that I've taken nearly four or five weeks to think about this experience, the learnings I primarily want to share are far different from what I originally intended. Here goes.

In some ways, I feel a lot older than my 32 years. I began working before I even left my teens, which has left me both seasoned and slightly tired. My professional career is marked by exciting opportunities, great relationships, fulfilling deliverables, and, at times, less-than-desirable circumstances. I'm very ambitious and welcome risk, excitement, and adventure. My husband shares many of these qualities, and together, we've embarked on (and sometimes abandoned) exciting, thrilling ventures.

It was not always like that. There was a time when, instead of choosing my ventures, jobs, or opportunities, I would take anything. I wanted to be a good communications expert, and I knew experience would get me there. I took unpaid internships, endured terrible bosses, and accepted even worse pay. I'd work on weekends, nights, you name it. What I did not realize was that experience would not only bring me skills but also knowledge. And with knowledge comes power.

The longer you test your personal and professional capacity, the better you understand yourself. For example, after working nearly six or seven years as a communication professional, I began to see that I was drawn to writing and editing. Two or three years into writing and editing, I learned that I would never choose to be a copywriter but rather a content writer or, better yet, a technical writer. Experience brought me knowledge and wisdom, and with that wisdom, it gave me power.

This power is the privilege and luxury of saying no. Because my experiences brought me great professional self-awareness, I know when to say no. I know to say no to opportunities for which I am not well-suited. I know to say no to employers who do not consider my contribution valuable. I know to say no when I'm in over my head. I know to say no to unrealistic expectations. But it's one thing to know to say no, and another to actually say it.

This brings me to the cafe my husband and I opened in 2021 and closed some nine months later. The truth is, after investing hundreds of thousands of birr and thousands of hours into it, we decided to close it because it was just too stressful. Although this business was profitable, we quickly learned that our personalities and other businesses simply did not allow us to give this cafe the attention it needed and deserved. We said no because we had the knowledge and luxury of saying no. After years of working, sharpening skills that not only made us employable but desirable, amassing a network of people who would confidently employ us or refer us, and accumulating a portfolio of experiences that substantiated our professional repertoire, we had the financial stability and professional confidence to be able to say no. Although I primarily managed the cafe, I am thankful that my husband—who's also my business partner—also felt this confidence to value me and my decision to close the cafe over the potential revenues it may generate. This, too, is often a luxury.

This is my greatest lesson and achievement thus far—working to earn my 'no.' After reflecting on my experience with the cafe and its subsequent closure, I learned that it is pride I should feel, not shame. I am proud that I had the knowledge to say no, and I am proud that I've worked hard to be able to act on that 'no.'

It's not just about saying 'no'; it's also about the luxury of saying 'yes.' Yes to passion projects that may not yield profits, yes to pro-bono assignments, yes to risk and excitement. That's what it means to work for your 'no'—to have meaningful and valuable assets such as skills, a tangible network, and experience as bargaining chips that allow you to negotiate and choose what to entertain.

Of course, this does not mean that your ability to say 'no' remains on a linear trajectory—far from it. However, my experiences have taught me that true success lies in knowing when to step back, when to exercise patience, and, most importantly, in prioritizing what truly matters and earning the power and freedom to give them the priority they deserve. I suppose this is my greatest lesson—there is power and freedom that come with earning your stripes. In the end, the ability to say no is not just a privilege but a crucial skill that allows us to align our lives with our values and goals. It's not an overnight sensation, and there's rarely any shortcut to it. Stay the course, do the work, make yourself an asset, and then enjoy the unexpected freedoms afforded to you.