Why I gave up on trying to be liked—and how it made my life ten times better

Confession time: For most of my early thirties, I was a chronic people-pleaser.

I said yes to social events I dreaded, laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, and bit my tongue in conversations where I had strong opinions. I told myself this was just being “nice.” In reality, I was performing a version of myself that I thought would be easier for others to accept.

The moment that still lingers in my mind happened during a work meeting about eight years ago. I remember nodding enthusiastically at a strategy I knew would never work, just because I didn’t want to seem difficult.

That night, it hit me: I’d become so focused on other people’s perception of me that I’d lost sight of what I actually thought about most things.

Recently, I picked up Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos. One line in particular stopped me cold: “Most of us don’t even know who we truly are. We wear masks so often, mold ourselves so thoroughly to fit societal expectations, that our real selves become a distant memory.”

Reading that, I couldn’t help but think back to that meeting all those years ago. I wish I’d had these insights then. Maybe I would’ve recognized sooner that my obsession with being likeable was really just a slow erasure of myself.

Anyway today I share my experience in the hopes it might help some of you. 

The exhaustion of constant performance

Living for other people's approval is remarkably tiring. Every social interaction becomes a careful calculation: What should I say? How should I react? Will this make them think less of me?

I started noticing how much mental energy I was spending on these calculations. In conversations, I was only half-present because the other half of my brain was monitoring my performance. Was I being interesting enough? Too opinionated? Not enthusiastic enough about their weekend plans?

This constant self-monitoring was draining me in ways I hadn't fully recognized until I began stepping back from it.

The fear behind the facade

What I discovered when I dug deeper was that my people-pleasing wasn't really about being kind—it was about fear. Fear of rejection, of conflict, of being seen as difficult or selfish. I was operating from a belief that my authentic self wasn't enough, that I needed to earn my place in every relationship through constant agreeability.

But here's what nobody tells you about trying to be universally liked: it's impossible.

No matter how much you contort yourself, someone will always find fault. I could spend an entire evening being the perfect dinner party guest, only to leave wondering if I'd talked too much about work or not asked enough questions about someone's hobby.

The turning point came when I started paying attention to the people I genuinely respected and enjoyed being around. None of them were people-pleasers. They had opinions. They said no when they meant no. They were kind, but they weren't performing kindness for approval.

What happened when I stopped trying so hard

The shift didn't happen overnight, but it started with small experiments.

I began expressing actual opinions in conversations instead of just reflecting back what I thought others wanted to hear. I started declining invitations to events that drained me without elaborate excuses or apologies.

The first time I disagreed with someone in a meeting, my heart pounded. I was certain they'd write me off as difficult. Instead, something unexpected happened—the conversation got more interesting. Other people started sharing different perspectives too. It turns out that when you stop being a mirror, you give others permission to be more real as well.

I started noticing that my relationships were changing. Some friendships that had been built on my willingness to always accommodate began to fade, but the ones that remained grew deeper. People seemed to trust me more when I showed them who I actually was, flaws and all.

The relief was immense. I no longer had to remember which version of myself I'd presented to whom. I could just show up as me.

The unexpected gifts of authenticity

One of the biggest surprises was how much more energy I had. All that mental bandwidth I'd been using to monitor and adjust my behavior was suddenly available for other things. I found myself more creative at work, more present in conversations, and genuinely happier in my own skin.

I also discovered that being authentic actually made me more likeable to the right people. When you're not trying to appeal to everyone, you naturally attract people who appreciate you for who you are. These connections feel completely different—they're based on genuine compatibility rather than performed agreeability.

My relationships with family improved too. Instead of walking on eggshells to avoid any hint of disapproval, I started having honest conversations.

Yes, there was some initial friction, but we worked through it. The closeness that emerged on the other side was worth every uncomfortable moment.

The reality check I needed

Here's something that helped me let go: recognizing that other people's opinions of me are largely about them, not me.

Or as Rudá puts it, "Their happiness is their responsibility, not yours."

Someone might dislike me because I remind them of their critical sister, or because my confidence triggers their own insecurities, or simply because we have incompatible personalities.

None of that is actually about my worth as a person.

I also had to confront an uncomfortable truth: my people-pleasing wasn't as altruistic as I'd convinced myself it was. Often, it was manipulative. I was being nice to get something—approval, acceptance, a sense of security. Real kindness doesn't come with strings attached.

What life looks like now

These days, I try to treat people with respect and consideration, but I don't twist myself into knots trying to manage their feelings about me. I set boundaries without guilt, express my actual thoughts, and trust that the people meant to be in my life will stick around.

Do some people like me less now? Probably. But the people who matter—the ones who value authenticity over agreeability—seem to like me more.

And most importantly, I like myself more.

The irony is that when you stop desperately trying to be liked, you often become more genuinely likeable. You're more interesting because you have actual opinions. You're more trustworthy because people know where they stand with you. You're more enjoyable to be around because you're not constantly performing.

I wish I could go back and tell my younger self that being universally loved isn't the goal—being authentically yourself is. The relief, the energy, the deeper connections that come from dropping the performance are worth more than any approval you might lose along the way.

Your real people will find you when you stop hiding behind the mask of who you think you should be.