I wanted to do something I knew would make other people annoyed. It was the right thing to do; I was fairly convinced of that fact. I was also confident that, in the language one uses to push through awkward decisions, I had “every right” to do it. If I did this particular thing, it would make my life easier, but it would also result in the disapproval of others. I can do this, I told myself. Actually, no I can’t. Hang on a sec, yes I can! Wait, no. Oh for God’s sake. OK, I’ll do it tomorrow.

For some reason, this summer, this particular dynamic is one I’m seeing come up all the time. I live in the US, but my social group is dominated by British and Australian people, who, I suspect, struggle more than Americans with certain types of assertion. The majority of Americans I know can change their minds about something, or turn it down flat, without dragging themselves around a Navy Seal-style internal obstacle course. The Brits and Australians I know – particularly, but not exclusively, the women – find it almost impossible to deliver a clean decision when they know it will result in the anger or disappointment of others.

Some specifics: a friend on the east coast who, having said yes to attending a wedding in California, wanted to back out when her circumstances changed. Another friend dealing with incoming renters, who wanted to tell them their last-minute requests for furniture removal were unreasonable. And my own situation, in which I wanted to pull my kids out of a summer camp they weren’t enjoying, which I knew would be regarded by the organisers as “quitting”. In each of these circumstances, it didn’t matter whether those on the other end of the exchange were strangers or friends; all three of us were equally reluctant to upset them.

This situation has, obviously, to do with how frightened we all are of being disliked, and the lengths to which we will go to escape it. I have had entire relationships with people purely to avoid the awkwardness of turning them down. I have done that thing you should never do: said yes, regretted it, gone back in to say no, been met with resistance, freaked out, and said “actually, don’t worry, it’s fine”. This ushers in the worst of all outcomes: failing to get what you want, while looking like a vacillating arsehole.

If I seem now to be over this, the jury’s still out. But the early signs are good, probably, in part, to do with the pandemic. After two years of not travelling or going out much, many of us are fielding invitations and opportunities that land differently than the way they once did. Expectations changed. Plans were altered. We all got used to being frustrated and let down. Somewhere in there, saying no got easier. In light of all this, now feels like a good time for a hard reset on boundaries.

I suspect my willingness to do what feels like the difficult thing is also just a function of age. I don’t have the time or energy I once did for building lavish fantasies about how much someone else hates me. We assume other people are more fragile than we are; that a single disappointment will break them. We also overestimate the space each of us takes up in the imaginations of others, even among our close friends and family. People have lives. They’re just as self-obsessed as we are. Not going to a friend’s wedding because to do so will mean missing out on a more important priority is a completely justifiable decision. If the bride is pissed off, she’ll get over it.

So here’s my new thing: before you say or do the thing you are frightened to do, you have to sit with the discomfort of the fallout. You have to respect the other person’s right to be annoyed, recognise it as the cost of your action, and assume it will pass much quicker than your weird agonising about it. You have to believe that the result – getting the thing that you want, that you believe to be best – is worth a few moments of feeling bad. It’s fine.

I took my kids out of summer camp. The organisers ghosted me. Nobody died. And there it is. I’m 46 years old and finally – finally – the thought “but what if they’re cross with me?” might stop factoring so heavily in my decision-making.

• Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist based in New York