Confessions of a Recovering People-Pleaser
It feels strange to even type: “recovering people-pleaser.” For so long, I wore the badge of “the one who’s always there” with pride. My calendar was a testament to it – helping friends, family, and associates - being the first to offer a shoulder to cry on. I genuinely loved being that person. It felt good to make others happy, to ease their burdens. It was who I was, or so I thought.
Then came the earthquake that shattered my world. DT got sick. A slow, agonizing decline that eventually took him from me. During those dark, endless months turned years, I found myself in need of empathy. And something truly shocking happened: the support I had so readily offered to everyone else… it wasn’t there for me in the same way.
It wasn’t that people didn’t care. They did, in their own ways. But the unwavering, consistent, no-questions-asked presence I had always been for others? That deep, comforting knowing that someone would drop everything for me? It was conspicuously absent. The phone didn’t ring with offers to bring dinner every night. My friends had their own lives, their own responsibilities, their own pain. And I, the master of self-sufficiency, the one who always showed up, felt utterly, profoundly alone.
The irony was a bitter pill. I had spent my entire adult life making sure no one else felt the way I often did as an oldest child, I learned early to be independent, to not ask for much, and to quietly observe the needs of others. I wanted to be the hero of my own story, yes, but more than that, I wanted to be the hero for others. I wanted to be the person I so desperately needed when I was young – the steadfast, understanding, ever-present adult who just got it. The one who saw my unspoken anxieties and gently offered comfort.
Now, as I navigate this new landscape, the urge to revert to my old ways is incredibly powerful. Every time a friend mentions a minor crisis, my finger hovers over the “How can I help?” text. My brain immediately starts problem-solving for others, even when I’m still trying to figure out how to solve my own. It’s a deeply ingrained habit, a comfort blanket I’ve wrapped myself in for decades. To shed it feels like shedding a part of my identity.
But I know that I have to. This recovery isn’t just about learning to say “no” or setting boundaries, although those are crucial steps. It’s about fundamentally redefining my relationship with myself and others. It’s about understanding that my worth isn’t tied to my usefulness, and that sometimes, the greatest act of love is allowing myself to be loved, to be supported, to be the one who needs.
It’s hard. It’s really, really hard. Every day is a conscious effort to resist the magnetic pull of people-pleasing. But I’m trying. I’m learning to sit with my own discomfort, to voice my own needs, and to trust that the right people will show up, even if it’s not in the exact way I’ve always shown up for them. And maybe I’ll finally become the person I needed all along – for myself.
