The Cost of Being Liked
People-pleasing can often be mistaken agreeableness and maturity. But beneath the surface of "accommodating" is a fear of rejection, a fear of being alone.
Underneath the porcupine-like spikes of pettiness lived something softer, something more hidden—the need to be liked. Unlike pettiness, which was loud, sharp, and often reactive, people-pleasing was quiet, polite, and often praised. It didn’t look like a flaw—it looked like cooperation, kindness, and sometimes even maturity. But it came from the same place: fear. The fear of rejection. The fear of being misunderstood. The fear that if I stood out too much or made others uncomfortable, I would be abandoned and isolated again.
Unlike pettiness, which welcomed confrontation, people-pleasing worked by avoiding confrontation at all costs. For years, I used to think of myself as confrontational because if someone came at me, I could and would match their energy – “knuck if you buck” style. But what I’ve learned by truly witnessing how I feel in both instances is that confrontation does not feel comfortable to me. I won’t back down from a fight, but I will try every possible route to avoid one. I’ve learned that standing firm in what I believe doesn’t always require confrontation. Sometimes, silence is the stronger stance. If history with someone has shown me that voicing my thoughts leads to unnecessary conflict, I often choose to keep those thoughts to myself—not because I’m afraid, but because I value my energy.
People-pleasing was a coping mechanism, just like pettiness. They were born from the same root but wore two different masks—and somewhere along the way, I chose one mask more often than the other. But what I didn’t realize was how much more that second mask—the people-pleasing one—would cost me.
It started small: agreeing to hang out when I didn’t want to. Then it became shapeshifting—adopting the personality of whoever I was with, learning how to blend in so I wouldn’t be targeted. Then, in my marriage, it escalated into saying yes to things that brought him happiness but left me feeling like parts of my soul were being chipped away. By the time I was 25, I had become a blue-checked people-pleaser of 14 years. Fourteen years of performing. Of making sure I didn’t rock the boat. Of letting myself become whatever and whoever others needed me to be. And somewhere in that process, I lost any compass for what I actually wanted. What I needed. Who I even was.
That’s why, as painful as it was, I’m grateful for the marriage I was in—because without that shattering, I would not have recognized how far removed I was from my own identity. People talk about going on journeys to find themselves, but what do you do when you’ve spent most of your life being someone else? How do you “find” someone you never really got the chance to meet? I didn’t go searching for myself—I created myself. And I chose to center that creation around Christ. Around a being whose identity has remained consistent throughout generations. It made sense. It was logical. It was strategic. If I anchored myself to Him, how could I fail? How could I lose myself again if my identity was centered around God? That kind of foundation can’t be shaken. I know when I’m drifting because the noise of life gets too loud, the hustle starts to wear on me—but because of the foundation I’ve given myself, I know how to come back to my center, how to prioritize my values and needs. Whether it’s the word of God or the silence that meets me when I sit alone in stillness, I feel that peace settle back in and I return back to my foundation.
This is why I now stand so firmly in my values, principles, and beliefs. I’ve seen the other side. I know what it looks like to betray yourself. I didn’t get the luxury of taking years to unlearn these habits. Like most parents, when you have a child, time is no longer something you can spend freely—it becomes a privilege. And I knew I didn’t want my son to witness people-pleasing in his mother. I didn’t want him to absorb a behavior and then assume it was normal or okay. He needed a mother who was rooted, consistent, and whole. Not someone who cracked under the weight of needing to be liked.
In one year, I started undoing 14 years of habit. I won’t pretend it’s all gone—residue still lingers. Sometimes I catch myself softening my voice to match a group. Sometimes I notice myself performing for a circle of people I want to impress. But now, I catch it. And when I do, I take a non-judgmental approach and gently remind myself to just be. I walk away from those moments content, not heavy. Because there is a very specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being someone you’re not. I lived it. I don’t want it anymore.
We have each done it. Even if for you it’s not as deeply rooted as it was for me, there are small moments where you’ve changed yourself even slightly to blend in. What part of yourself do you silence to avoid making others uncomfortable? What version of you have you buried for fear of judgement? More importantly—what would it look like to start being yourself, even if it made others uncomfortable? What would it feel like to stop performing and simply exist?