Difficult or Assertive? What Moving My Business Home Taught Me About Speaking Up

So, apparently I'm difficult now.

Not resilient. Not experienced. Not a woman who has moved her business four times in thirteen years and knows exactly how it should go. Difficult. And also, according to one particularly memorable phone call, possibly just “stressed from moving.”

Let me back up.

The move that broke me (and a shelf)

As you might know, we've just moved Naughty Naturopath Mum back home — back to our roots, where this whole thing started. I was genuinely excited about it. I'd booked removalists, been quoted three to four hours for the job, and figured the hardest part of the week would be deciding where the packing benches would live.

It became clear pretty quickly that our movers were, let's say, new to the craft. Heavy wooden packing benches were loaded onto the hydraulic lift with all the pressure in the middle, bowing so badly I genuinely thought I was about to watch one snap in half. One of our steel shelving units folded in on itself like a taco — brackets bent, completely unusable. Another shelf took a chunk out of our wall on its way past.

And the clock kept ticking. Because of course we were being billed by the half hour. Five and a half hours in, with three half-full truckloads done and plenty still sitting there, we pulled the pin. My employees and I finished the move ourselves in car loads over an extra day, and a mate with a ute rescued the last two big items on the weekend. (Autocorrect insists on calling him “a mate with a uterus,” and honestly? Mates with uteruses also get things done. But this one had a ute.)

Here's where it gets interesting

Because the damage and the delays weren't actually the worst part. The worst part was what happened when I spoke up.

When I raised concerns — calmly, factually, as things were happening — I got swearing muttered under breath. I was told our shelves were “shit” anyway. When I pointed out the damage to the wall, the response was that there were already other marks on our walls, so why would we complain about this one? The general vibe from everyone involved was that my husband and I should just go away and let them work.

Then came the truck standoff. Company policy: they don't unload until you've paid in full. And I wasn't okay with paying five and a half hours for a job quoted at three to four — especially with half our stuff still sitting at the old place. So they simply refused to unload, and waited, while I rang their boss to say this was not okay. Eventually they brought it down to four hours, we paid, and our belongings were released from custody.

When I followed up with management afterwards, I got the greatest hits album of non-apologies. “The movers said they did the job well and were respectful.” “We've never had complaints about these guys before.” “The photos only show minor cosmetic damage.” And my personal favourite: maybe I was just stressed. From moving.

A discount was given in the end — and I told them it was appreciated, and also that it didn't come close to covering an extra day's work, the damage, or the stress. What I actually wanted was some accountability. An authentic apology. What I got was a company politely explaining to me that my experience hadn't happened.

Difficult, or just done?

Lying in bed that night, I kept thinking about how many people wouldn't have said anything at all. How many would have paid the full amount, smiled through gritted teeth, and then cried in the car. Because we've all been trained — women especially, mums especially — that speaking up makes you difficult. Picky. Aggressive. A Karen. Pick your label.

Was my tone terse by the end? Absolutely. Was I ever disrespectful? No. I stated facts, backed by the experience of three previous moves that went exactly how moves are supposed to go. And every time I did, it got flipped back onto me — as if the problem wasn't the bowing benches or the taco shelf, but the woman pointing at them.

Here's the thing about being in my season of life: I've stopped caring whether holding my ground gets me labelled difficult. I know the difference between being rude and being clear. I know what's right and what's wrong. And I will not be gaslit by a man who folded my shelf in half.

This isn't really about removalists, is it

Because if you're a mum, you already know this feeling in your bones.

It's the feeling of advocating for your kid at school and watching yourself get filed under “that mother.” It's pushing for answers and the right support for your child — when you've done more research at 2am than anyone else in the room — and being met with a tight smile. It's raising something with a coach, a teacher, a health professional, a family member, and feeling the temperature change. Suddenly you're not a mum with a legitimate concern. You're emotional. You're overreacting. You're a lot.

Nobody knows your kid like you do. Nobody knows your business, your home, your family, your body like you do. And yet the moment we state a need clearly, so often the conversation stops being about the need and starts being about our tone.

So here's what I want you to take from my week of chaos: being called difficult is often proof you said something that needed saying.

Read that again. The discomfort you feel when you hold your ground? That's not a sign you've done something wrong. Nine times out of ten it's a sign you've done something right, in front of someone who preferred the version of you that stayed quiet.

A little something for your voice

I'll be honest — I reached for my Truth blend  more than once these past two weeks. It's the one I keep close for those moments when I need a little backup finding my voice: speaking up even when it's uncomfortable, saying what I actually mean instead of what keeps the peace, and standing in my truth when someone's trying to hand me back a different version of events.

If you've got a conversation you've been swallowing — with a school, a workplace, a family member, or a removalist company that shall remain nameless — consider this your sign. Say the thing. Kindly, clearly, and without apologising for existing.

You're not difficult. You're just no longer available for the alternative.

Alisha x

P.S. The shelf did not survive. The wall will be patched. My voice is doing just fine.