Year of Yes

by Shonda Rhimes

  Everyone was pushing. Betsy was pushing. The studio was pushing. I was dodging phone calls. I was saying vague things. I was telling people that I needed to think.

  These were the very early days, before we’d even shot a single frame of footage. I was incredibly excited but the introvert in me was regretting being at the epicenter of a production. Everyone kept asking me what I wanted to do. In those early days, I was scared to have an opinion because I was afraid of having a different opinion than everyone else.

  Betsy kept staring at me, bewildered. Who in the hell had replaced Shonda with a weird pod person? Because the Shonda she had known during the writing process had been enthusiastic and opinionated. Now I seemed to be fading. I kept my head down and avoided looking at her.

  One morning, Linda called me at home. I’d only known her a matter of weeks and at this point, I’m fairly sure she thought I was a moron who did not know how to speak because I only mumbled to say things like “More cookies,” “I don’t know” and “I need to go write more” before escaping the room.

  Linda got me on the phone.

  “Shonda,” she said firmly, “you are wasting time. You are wasting resources. Actors are being snapped up by other shows every other minute. We are at a standstill because you will not say what you want. You and I both know you do not want to cast this actor. So you need to say so—so we can move on and cast someone you do want. This is your show and if you cast someone you do not want, it will not be your show. You need to tell everyone no.”

  We got everyone else on the phone. As everyone poured out their reasons for why this actor was going to be the perfect Cristina, I could feel Linda breathing on the line. She was waiting for me to speak up. If I say no, they could decide I don’t know what I’m doing and take this whole thing away from me, I worried. If I say no, they could just do what they want anyway.

  Finally, I blurted out, “No.”

  Silence.

  I had never asserted myself before. There was a pause.

  Betsy tried to reason with me. To her, I’m sure I sounded a bit crazy. I’d been so busy mumbling and being along for the ride that I’d never said a word. As far as she knew I loved the actor.

  “But, Shonda—”

  “No. I do not want her. I do not want to write for her. No. No. NO.”

  There was a pause. Then I heard Betsy’s voice rev up. Now I can tell you that energy comes from excitement. There is nothing Betsy loves more as a producer than someone who actually has a creative vision and isn’t afraid to fight for it.

  “Okay,” she said. “No on that chick. Okay!”

  I could also feel her relief. Shonda had returned.

  I was just as relieved. That was my very first no at work. My first moment of asserting myself as the leader, the captain of what we all thought was going to be a tiny sailboat called Untitled Shonda Rhimes Pilot but turned out to be a gigantic ocean liner called Grey’s Anatomy.

  My first NO.

  And my favorite NO.

  Because of that NO? I decided that I was steering the ship. And I started behaving that way. I started behaving like the thing in my brain was our only true north. And that we would be guided by it no matter what.

  Because of that NO?

  Sandra Oh walked in the door the very next day. The lock in my brain found its key. Cristina Yang was born.

  yesyesyes

  No is powerful. It’s a big weapon to have in your arsenal. But it is a very tough weapon to deploy.

  Everyone knows how difficult it is to say no.

  It’s one of the reasons why people seem to be comfortable asking you for favors they have no business asking you for. They know how hard it is to say no.

  “Can you watch my kids for an hour?”

  “Can I wear your diamond earrings?”

  “Can I borrow your car?”

  Or telling you to do things they have no business telling you to do.

  “I am gonna need you to work my shift.”

  “I need you to loan me a hundred dollars.”

  Now, the answer to all of these should be no—unless the person coming to me is one of my closest friends or a member of my immediate family. Frankly, if they aren’t your closest friends or family, they have no business even asking the question. No. No. No.

  But it’s hard to say no.

  Even though I’ve become a master at saying no at work, it’s different in my personal life. Everything is different in your personal life. At work I have the shield of speaking on behalf of what is best for the story, the show, the cast, the crew, the staff. Outside of work, I’m speaking on behalf of what is best for me.

  And who am I?

  I’m great at taking care of other people. So why am I so bad at taking care of myself? Why am I so unwilling to show myself the same kindness and consideration, to cut myself the same slack, to give myself the same protection and care that I would give anyone else?

  This problem did not change as I got more successful at work.

  It got worse.

  This Year of Yes continuously revealed new things to me as I shed layers of myself. When I got to this yes, this desire not to be a doormat, the Yes to saying No, the television upfronts—the industry’s yearly New York presentation of each network’s new fall shows to advertisers—had just happened. I’d just stood onstage at Lincoln Center with Viola Davis at my side as ABC announced to the world that the most valuable piece of real estate in television was going to be mine. They were programming Thursday night with Shondaland shows. Not just a piece of it. All of it. Grey’s Anatomy at eight, Scandal at nine and How to Get Away with Murder at ten.

  Thirteen years ago, when I told my agent, Chris, that I wanted to switch from writing movies to TV, I jokingly said “I want to take over the world through television.” I jokingly said it a lot—to friends, to my sisters, to everyone.

  What’s your goal?

  I want to take over the world through television.

  I said it jokingly. But I was not joking. I was never joking.

  And now it was happening. Onstage at Lincoln Center with Viola Davis standing beside me.

  My dream was coming true.

  You know what happens when all of your dreams come true?

  Nothing.

  I realized a very simple truth: that success, fame, having all my dreams come true would not fix or improve me, it wasn’t an instant potion for personal growth. Having all my dreams come true only seemed to magnify whatever qualities I already possessed.

  So my inability to be a shark? To Pope someone? To fix, to handle?

  To say no?

  Still powerfully in place at work on behalf of my shows and my people. In Shondaland, I truly was a gladiator. I was fearless. I battled with endless energy.

  But outside the office? On my own behalf?

  Somehow I am back in the pantry again.

  Let me know if you need any canned goods.

  I was like a helpless baby lamb waiting to be slaughtered.

  A grown-ass television-show-running helpless baby lamb.

  The craziest thing about becoming successful is that all kinds of people decide that you are rich. And not just rich. They decide you are a bank. Now, the truth is, nobody actually knows your situation and the assumption that you have a ton of money is just that—an assumption. And not always a true one.

  If I were truly rich—I mean really actually money-for-several-generations wealthy—I would be in Vermont. Making jam. And writing novels. While my muscular handyman boyfriend who would be named Fitz or Derek or Jake or Burke chopped wood and grilled dinner.

  You see I’m not in Vermont, right? You see I’m not making jam? And that the only Fitzes and Dereks are fictional?

  You see that because you are here hanging out with me. But others . . . they get those cartoon dollar signs inside their cartoon eyeballs.

  The moment I had a TV show on the air, people came out of the woodwork. People I knew, people I hadn’t talked to in years, people I
only vaguely knew, people who maybe knew someone who might have known my mom, people who were related to me by the thinnest of threads . . .

  Jobs, places to stay, money, scripts to be read, a part on the show, audition opportunities, tuition, films to be financed, introductions to celebrities, investments in their companies, a meeting with the child of their friend—you name it and I’ve been asked for it.

  At first I couldn’t believe it. I really couldn’t.

  I also couldn’t say no.

  I would try. And then I’d find myself nervously babbling some excuse and talking myself into a circle that somehow always ended in my saying yes.

  My mother would stare at me in disbelief. Outraged on my behalf.

  “Who called you and asked for what? Do we know these people? Give me their number and I will take care of this.”

  A NO conversation was a five-brownie emergency. At the rate I was getting requests, I was going to need to be forklifted to a special facility in a very short time. Do not laugh. Being forklifted is not a joke—it’s my dark place.

  But then, fortunately, as suddenly as the deluge of requests started coming in, they started to slow to a trickle. Years later, I learned my sister Sandie became an expert at stepping in and deflecting crazy requests for favors before I even knew of them.

  I have good sisters.

  Gordon, Zola and Scottie told me they dealt with it as well. My parents got inundated. Everyone around me did. And they willingly acted as human shields. Forcing back the herds of weirdos and audacious money seekers.

  But they couldn’t force back the people I thought were friends. People I considered myself close to. People I was naive enough to date. The foxes in my henhouse.

  Soon after the Year of Yes began, someone I know well and love a lot (I’m going to randomly call this person . . . Laura) asked me to give her a large amount of money. A very large amount of money. More money than I would ever considering spending at one time. Laura just casually asked for this sum of money as if she was asking me for five dollars.

  I am from the Midwest. I will fight you if you try to tell me to buy a fancy cheese—bulk cheese never hurt anybody. And so what if cheap toilet paper is scratchy? The scratchy is how you know you are clean.

  You see my point?

  I am not going to feel good parting with that kind of money.

  Gordon, Scott and Zola and I have dinner.

  “Say yes to saying no,” they tell me. “Nobody should be asking you for that kind of money. That is your money. You earned that money. You worked for that money. You don’t owe it to anyone. I don’t care if you were a zillionaire, you are not obligated to give anyone a dime of your money.”

  “No is a complete sentence,” Sandie lectures me. “You say no and you say good-bye. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

  No is a complete sentence.

  I’ve heard that cliché over and over.

  So, I decide to treat saying no in the same way I treat saying thank you. Say no and then don’t say anything else.

  I come up with three different clear ways of saying no.

  • “I am going to be unable to do that.”

  • Zola gives me: “That is not going to work for me.”

  • And there’s simply: “No.”

  I write the lines down on a Post-it. Then I slap the Post-it on the front of my computer monitor so that it sticks out from the side like a flag. I stare at it as I get on the phone with Laura. Laura, a person I have considered a friend for years. My hands are shaking. My mind goes blank. I have to stare at the script on the Post-it in order to say the words.

  “About the money,” I say softly, “I am going to be unable to do that.”

  The rant sent in my direction because I will not hand over my money is stunning. As I listen—and I do sit and listen—I feel a tremendous sense of relief wash over me.

  And in that moment, I am set free.

  The reason I’ve been so afraid to say no is clear. I worried, “What if she gets angry? What if she doesn’t want to be friends anymore? What if she yells and things turn ugly?”

  Now it’s happening. And all I can think is, “Good. Now I know.” The worst thing that could happen is happening and . . . so what? It isn’t so awful. I’m happier knowing what kind of person this really is than I was not knowing. Saying no, what I really wanted to say, allowed Laura to reveal herself by getting her to say what she really wanted to say. And what she wanted to say was she was using me for what I could do for her. That she resented me. That I was her ATM machine.

  And you know what I say to that?

  Aw. Hell. No.

  Laura pauses in her rant. “This,” I think, “is the part where I am supposed to apologize and offer to give her the money.”

  Later, Zola will tell me that while I may not see it, six months earlier I would have apologized and handed over the money to avoid any and all drama, pain and conflict. Zola will gently imply that I used to be a doormat.

  But right now, I can hear my old friend Laura breathing on the phone. And I calmly fill the silence.

  “This? Isn’t gonna work for me. No. Bye.”

  Bye, Felicia.

  And I hang up.

  I literally run around the room. I do that sometimes. When I get overly excited, I run around the room. I did it during the Red Wedding scene of Game of Thrones. I did it when they picked up the pilot for Grey’s Anatomy to series. I did it the moment I got the call Harper was about to be born.

  I feel fantastic. I am on a high for days. I tell the story to anyone who will listen. People keep trying to comfort me over the loss of a friend.

  But they don’t get it. I did not lose a friend. I gained a second superpower.

  I can make stuff up. And I can say no.

  Wait.

  I can do more than say no.

  I can say anything.

  I can make stuff up. And I can say anything.

  I can say anything to anyone.

  Any difficult conversation, any tough issue I have sitting in the pit of my stomach, any unsaid confessions, any itchy little resentment and unpleasant business?

  I can talk about it.

  I want to talk about it.

  Because no matter how hard a conversation is, I know that on the other side of that difficult conversation lies peace. Knowledge. An answer is delivered. Character is revealed. Truces are formed. Misunderstandings are resolved.

  Freedom lies across the field of the difficult conversation.

  And the more difficult the conversation, the greater the freedom.

  When someone says something petty or nasty, one of those little passive-aggressive things that would usually just pick at me for days, my new response is not to shut the door and bitch to anyone who will listen. Now? The moment they say it?

  “What did you mean by that?” I ask in a calm voice.

  It startles them. I realize that most of us aren’t used to being spoken TO. We are used to being spoken about. We are used to avoiding all the conflict. And of course, in the avoidance all we’re doing is creating more drama.

  A good friend was the queen of mumbling under her breath.

  “Well, too bad for you,” she’d mumble when I told her about something minor that had made for a difficult day at work.

  “What did you mean by that?”

  She looked up.

  “What?”

  “ ‘Well, too bad for you.’ That’s what you said. What did you mean by that?”

  She was mortified. She hadn’t been aware that anyone else could hear her mumblings. She didn’t know that her inner monologue of bitterness was audible to the world. Her apology was sincere; the work she has to do on herself is her own.

  When something wasn’t going well, when there was a conflict or someone was upset or being difficult, the more introverted me would flee and hope it all went away. The new me wades right into the deep end and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  yesyesyes

  It has been unex
pectedly glorious so far. Simply being willing to have the conversations acted as a sort of magical spell. Some potion was tossed into the ether of the universe. Because the moment I said yes to the challenge, the moment I was open to having the conversations, suddenly in that instant my life was changed.

  I grew more courageous; I shed some shyness, some awkwardness, some social fear. Each time I said yes, I gained new friends and new experiences and found myself getting involved with projects that I never would have dreamed I could be part of.

  I laughed more. I was bolder. I was brazen. I spoke my mind and spoke it loud. And as busy as I was, I felt like I had more free time than ever; I realized I’d been wasting a huge amount of time and energy on complaining and feeling sorry for myself, being dark and twisty me. Now I wasn’t interested in being that person. Not when it was so much easier to just open my mouth and talk.

  yesyesyes

  I’ve become kind of obsessed with difficult conversations. Mostly because of how calm life is when you are willing to have them. Also because of how much easier it is not to eat the cake when I’m not stressed out or holding a grudge or full of hurt feelings.

  I stuck a Post-it on my bathroom mirror that says, “I can say it or I can eat it.” As corny as it sounds, it’s true. I wish I’d learned to say yes twenty-five years ago. Between dieting and never saying what I thought, I wasted a lot of time.

  But I was making up for it. The yeses were adding up. The swagger, the play, the thank-yous, the difficult conversations, the weight loss—I was beginning to seem like a different person.

  Over one of our weekly dinners, my three closest friends informed me of this.

  “You don’t look the same, act the same or even feel like the same person,” Zola told me.

  Scott and Gordon agreed.

  “You are strutting,” Scott said. “You glow now.”

  “You used to be all slumped over,” Gordon said. “Depressed and ‘don’t look at me.’ That girl is gone.”

  Gone. Girl.

  yesyesyes

  Saying what you think and wading into the deep end don’t always have a happy ending. Difficult conversations are something of a gamble and you have to be willing to be okay with the outcome. And you have to know, going in, where you draw the line.