Peace, Rising

What the Michelin Man Taught Me About Saying No

I’ve always loved the story of the Michelin Guide. Not the fancy stars or the stiff white napkins, but the origin story. Two brothers with a tire company—not a travel agency, not a food blog, not a hotel chain—decided to print a little red book encouraging people to get in their cars and go somewhere. Anywhere. Eat. Explore. Stay the night. Go further than you planned.

Why?

Because if people traveled more, they’d wear out their tires faster.

Brilliant. Generous. And kind of hilarious. A tire company didn’t tell you to buy tires. They told you to live more.

It wasn’t marketing. It was belief. That if you gave people something of value, something that nudged them toward joy, the rest would follow. And maybe, just maybe, they’d come back for tires.

It made me think about my own journey—literally and metaphorically. About how I walked across the country not to sell anything, but to offer something: perspective, perhaps. Or proof. Proof that you can start over, even when your feet hurt and your heart hurts more.

And throughout that entire walk—from coast to coast—my hammock came with me.

It wasn’t just gear. It was my peace practice. My place to breathe. I hung it between desert fence posts, pine trees, porch columns, gas station signposts—anywhere that would hold space for stillness. My hammock became the one place I could hear myself think, feel the weight of my body settle, and remember what I was doing this all for.

It was my soft rebellion against a world that asks us to keep going. It said: pause here. Be here. Restore here.

The more I rested there, the more I started writing my own guidebook—not one with starred restaurants or elegant hotels, but with quiet little truths scribbled in the margins of long days. Like the realization that you don’t have to say yes to every roadside conversation just to be polite. That a day of rest isn’t a wasted day. That not everyone deserves a seat at your table—some are just passing through, and that’s okay.

And maybe the biggest one of all: saying yes to everyone else is a fast-track to blowing out your own tires.

I used to think boundaries were hard lines. Barriers. But they’re not. They’re road signs. They say things like: slow down. Take the scenic route. Turn off here for peace.

They’re not there to punish or push people away. They’re there to guide you back to yourself. Back to your hammock. Back to your peace.

Because peace isn’t something you find once and hold forever. It’s a way of traveling. A way of choosing. It’s what you build when no one’s watching—when you choose rest instead of resentment, or silence instead of over-explaining, or dinner alone instead of draining company.

Just like the Michelin brothers, I’ve realized the best way to encourage people to live more fully is to live more fully myself. Not to pretend I’ve got it all figured out. But to live in a way that honors my limits, my joy, my deep need for both movement and rest.

Sometimes that looks like saying, “No, I can’t work late tonight.”

Or “No, I won’t take that call during dinner.”

Or “No, I’m not making myself small to make someone else more comfortable.”

Every time I say no to something that drains me, I’m saying yes to something that fills me up.

Peace doesn’t make a scene. But it shows up when you do. It lingers in the quiet, in the slowness, in the way your shoulders finally drop.

The Michelin Man didn’t sell tires in that little red book. He sold the possibility of a life lived off the highway. A meal that tastes like someone cooked it just for you. A road trip with no ETA. A pull-off at sunset just because it felt like the right thing to do.

I want that. For me. For you. For anyone who’s ever been running on fumes because they forgot they were allowed to pause.

And today, at 7 a.m., back in New York City, I found them—two sturdy trees in beautiful Riverside Park.

After crossing the country with my hammock and carrying peace from place to place, I finally found my permanent posts. My home base for stillness. My city hammock. A continuation of the quiet I learned to protect along the way.

It’s not the beginning of a practice. It’s the commitment to keep it alive. The yes to myself I plan to keep saying, over and over again.

So here’s where I landed: protect your joy like it’s the last tire in the trunk. Protect your peace like it’s the map you forgot you had. And when you find your hammock trees—rest there. You’ve earned it.

Peace, rising.