CAN’T

CAN AND (choosing) NOT TO: A call for accountability

By Michael Harvey, FF/Paramedic, RN

Co-Founder, Emergency Medical Resolutions Inc.

“I can’t”.

It's a phrase that wears itself like a warm blanket of low expectations. A quiet agreement we make with ourselves to stop pushing. A soft landing.

It sounds honest. Realistic. Maybe even wise.

“I can’t” lets us retreat into doubt. It keeps us safe from the unknown and protects us from embarrassment, failure, and uncertainty.

And sometimes it is just fear wearing a more acceptable name.

CAN’T: Can And (choosing) Not To.

Dissected and reframed, the thought becomes a little unsettling.

It strips away the comfort. It cracks the glass ceiling with the responsibility of choice. It suggests that many of the barriers we feel are not fixed, but rather quietly built by us.

Recently my three year old son was trying to get dressed. Shirt twisted, arms stuck halfway through, frustration building, he exclaimed, “I can’t!” He said it again, louder, more certain this time.

But nothing was actually stopping him. The shirt fit. His arms worked. The only real impediment was the frustration of the moment. The unease of not getting it right. The small voice telling him it was easier to stop.

It was hard not to see the reflection of myself.

As adults, we just have more polished versions of the same script:

I can’t start that. I can’t leave this. I can’t change now. I can’t afford to try.

Underneath those words is often the same thing: the security of self doubt, the weight of failure, the uncertainty quietly shackling our potential.

“I can’t” becomes a kind of way to stay inside the familiar. But if you sit with it long enough, the phrase starts to resonate. As though the potential of what could have been reverberates with every decision.

Not “I can’t.” But “I can, and I am choosing not to.” The shift is subtle, but heavy. It puts the agency back in your hands. An accountability rarely requested and yet, always an option.

When my son said he couldn’t, I didn’t correct him or give a speech. I just told him to try again.

Slowly and awkwardly. Fussy and frustrated the whole time, the shirt went on.

Nothing magical happened. No breakthrough moment. He just kept going a little longer than he wanted to.

And that is usually all it is. Most of the time, “can’t” is not a wall.

It is a pause. A moment of apprehension. An inner noise asking you to stop.

And sometimes the difference between the life you have and the life you want is simply choosing not to listen to it.