When Saying No Matters: What a Rabbit, a Dog, and an Opossum Taught Me

Have you ever felt the weight of not saying no though you really wanted to?

I recently ran into this situation through a tiny rabbit, our elderly dog Gyzmo and an unexpected visitor, an opposum.

Sometimes life teaches us through the quietest creatures.

Looking back, I can see how three separate moments — years apart — were connected by something much deeper than circumstance.

The Rabbit Kit (First Marriage)

It was in Connecticut during my first marriage. One day, a tiny wild rabbit kit appeared in our ground-floor apartment — fragile, trembling, and clearly vulnerable. At first, I was scared it might be a rat. I had only been living in the U.S. for a year or two and had no idea who to call for wildlife rescue. Unsure what to do, I reached out to my husband on the phone for advice. A decision was made quickly, and in that moment, I felt a strong internal reaction: this doesn’t feel right.

But I didn’t say it out loud.

I felt small in that marriage. My husband had strong opinions, and we were raised in a culture that subconsciously accepted by default that the male voice prevailed over the female for major family decisions, and that the older voice had greater significance than the younger. Even if I managed to conquer my inner conditioning and voiced my concerns, I had slowly learned that challenging his opinions often led to tension or dismissal. There had been instances of physical aggression in the past and I had slowly learned to quiet myself to keep things smooth. So when the decision was made to dispose of the rabbit — to throw the kit in the garbage — I froze.

I remember the weight in my chest.
I remember the silence.
I remember knowing I disagreed — and swallowing it.

The rabbit wasn’t just a rabbit. It became a symbol of my unspoken voice.

Gyzmo (Second Marriage)

About fourteen years later, in my second marriage, history echoed — this time in the form of our elderly Shih Tzu, Gyzmo.

He was sick. Diarrhea. Weakness. It was winter, and bitterly cold.

My husband was frustrated with the mess in the house when he relieved his bowels indoors and insisted Gyzmo sleep outside.

I felt that same tightening in my body — that same knowing. This is not right.

But there was also fear. Anger in the house created instability. I had learned to calculate the emotional cost of resistance.

So my seven-year-old son and I did what we felt we safely could.

We placed Gyzmo’s dog bed right outside the front door on the porch.
My son found his favorite blanket and gently covered him.
We knelt beside him, petting him, whispering to him.

And then we went inside.

The door closed.
The cold remained outside with him.

I carried that guilt for years — not because I did nothing, but because I didn’t do everything my heart wanted to do.

The Opossum (Now)

Recently, an opossum appeared in my life. It was nighttime, and our Great Pyrenees was making a ruckus on the deck after her potty break. When I opened the door, she was prancing around something curled up on the deck, about the size of a small dog. My heart sank — at first, I feared she had hurt it. There was a spot on its back that looked like a bite, with open, blood-stained flesh.

But then I saw its belly rising and falling — it was breathing. Its nose twitched. A neighbor confirmed via text that it was indeed an opossum. Questions swirled through my mind: Had our dog injured it? Did it have babies waiting in a nest?

The scene eerily reminded me of the rabbit kit from many years ago. I was overcome with sadness, guilt, and worry about this tiny life. I brought our dog inside, turned off the deck light, and prayed for the opossum’s health and safety. A few minutes later, the creature seemed to sit up, then wobbled down the deck steps.

I let out a sigh of relief — and in that moment, I realized this encounter was offering me more than just concern for the opossum. It led me to inner work, to forgiveness for myself, and understanding that I had always acted the best I could with the circumstances I faced.

The next day, something dawned on me. The opossum showed up under circumstances that could have easily been handled harshly or dismissively. But this time, something was different.

There was no dominant voice overriding mine.
No anger to fear.
No one limiting my response.

I had full freedom to decide what felt humane and aligned.

And I chose compassion without hesitation.

I didn’t have to explain myself.
I didn’t have to negotiate my conscience.
I didn’t have to shrink.

That’s when I realized: the pattern wasn’t about animals.

The rabbit showed me my silence.
Gyzmo showed me my partial courage under constraint.
The opossum showed me my freedom.

Life wasn’t repeating pain to punish me.
It was showing me my evolution.

A central theme in my work is the importance of recognizing when something feels wrong and having the courage to speak up. My children’s book, Cutie Says No, is a child-centered reflection of that mission — helping young readers develop healthy boundaries long before silence becomes a habit.

If you’d like to share this lesson with children, Cutie Says No is available on Amazon: https://amzn.to/4qNN2Wq

So, how has speaking up shown up for you?