My therapist gave me homework — and it broke me in the best possible way

I didn’t expect therapy homework to be a big deal.

Journaling? I already do that.
Mindfulness? Been there.
Gratitude lists? Please.

But what my therapist gave me wasn’t one of those neat, clinical checklists. It wasn’t a worksheet or a breathing exercise. It was a single, unsettling prompt scribbled on a sticky note:

“For one week, stop managing people’s impressions of you.”

That’s it.

I laughed when I read it. A short, confused, nervous kind of laugh. “You mean like… stop explaining myself?” I asked.

“Exactly,” she said. “No overexplaining, no preemptive apologies, no softening your tone to make other people comfortable. Just show up. Say what you need. Let them think what they think.”

She made it sound simple.

It wasn’t.

The uncomfortable truth about people-pleasing

You know that feeling when you're so focused on saying the "right" thing that you forget what you actually think?

That was my entire existence.

Every conversation felt like an audition where I was desperately trying to secure the role of "person you'd want to be around."

The homework forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: I had no idea who I actually was underneath all those carefully managed impressions.

When you spend decades crafting responses based on what you think others want to hear, your own voice becomes a whisper.

At work, this showed up as chronic over-apologizing.

"Sorry, just wanted to circle back on this project."

"Sorry to bother you, but could you take a look at this?"

"Sorry for the delay on this email."

I was apologizing for existing, for taking up space, for having needs.

During my week of homework, I started noticing every "sorry" that wasn't actually necessary. Instead of "Sorry to bother you," I tried "Hi, could you help me with something?"

The world didn't end. My colleagues didn't suddenly hate me. In fact, they seemed more responsive to direct communication.

But the real reckoning came with my family.

Sunday dinner at my parents' house usually involved me playing the role of the agreeable daughter—nodding along with Dad's stories I'd heard a hundred times, pretending to enjoy Mom's overcooked roast, carefully steering conversations away from topics that might create tension.

This time, when Dad launched into his familiar complaints about "kids these days," I didn't nod sympathetically. I didn't redirect. I just sat there, quiet, refusing to manage his need for validation.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long until my sister jumped in with her own perspective.

Later, Mom pulled me aside. "You seemed different tonight. More... present." She paused, searching for words. "I realized I never really know what you think about things."

Her observation stung because it was true. I'd been so busy being the daughter they wanted that I'd never given them the chance to know the daughter I actually was.

Learning to disappoint people (and survive it)

The hardest part of the assignment wasn't the initial discomfort—it was learning to sit with other people's disappointment.

When you stop managing impressions, you inevitably let people down. You reveal preferences they didn't expect. You set boundaries that inconvenience them.

You become human instead of a carefully curated version of yourself.

For instance, my friend Jessica had gotten used to me always being available for her crisis calls. When she texted at 11 PM during my homework week, spinning about her latest dating drama, I didn't respond immediately like I usually would.

Instead, I waited until morning and sent a simple message: "Sounds stressful. Want to talk about it over coffee this weekend?"

She was clearly thrown. "Are you okay? You always respond right away."

I explained that I was trying to be more intentional about my availability, that late-night crisis calls weren't sustainable for me.

She was quiet for a moment before saying, "I never realized I was doing that to you. I thought you liked helping."

This conversation opened up something deeper. Jessica admitted she'd been feeling guilty about always unloading on me but hadn't known how to bring it up.

My boundary-setting gave her permission to be more thoughtful about when and how she sought support.

Around this time, my therapist recommended I read Laughing in the Face of Chaos by Rudá Iandê as well.

The book's central message resonated deeply with what I was experiencing: "Being human means inevitably disappointing and hurting others, and the sooner you accept this reality, the easier it becomes to navigate life's challenges."

This quote became my anchor during the most difficult moments of the week.

When I had to tell my mom I couldn't help with her charity event because I had plans.

When I shared my actual opinion about a controversial topic at work. When I stopped pretending to laugh at jokes I didn't find funny.

Each small act of authenticity felt like a rebellion against decades of conditioning. I was learning that disappointing others wasn't a character flaw—it was an inevitable part of being a real person with real needs and preferences.

The unexpected freedom of being disliked

By day five, something shifted.

The constant mental calculation of how my words and actions would be received began to fade. Not because I stopped caring about others, but because I realized that authentic connection requires risk.

When you're always managing impressions, you're essentially offering people a product instead of a person. You're saying, "Here's a version of me that I think you'll find acceptable."

But products don't form real relationships. They collect customers.

I started noticing how much more present I felt in conversations when I wasn't monitoring my performance.

Instead of planning my next response while someone was talking, I could actually listen.

Instead of scanning their face for signs of approval or disapproval, I could engage with their actual words.

The week ended with a revelation that caught me completely off guard.

At a work meeting, someone made a comment that would usually send me into people-pleasing overdrive. Instead of immediately agreeing or trying to smooth things over, I paused.

In that pause, I found my actual response—not the one I thought people wanted to hear, but the one that felt true.

"I see it differently," I said, and then explained my perspective without apologizing for it.

The discussion that followed was more engaged and productive than any meeting I'd been in for months. Afterward, a colleague approached me. "I really valued your input today. You should speak up more often."

This feedback revealed something profound: people weren't looking for a perfectly agreeable version of me.

They wanted my actual thoughts, my real perspective, my authentic contribution. All this time, I'd been withholding the very thing that made me valuable to others.

The homework assignment officially ended after seven days, but its effects continue months later.

I still catch myself slipping into impression-management mode, but now I recognize it as a choice rather than an automatic response.

I've learned to ask myself: "What do I actually think about this?" before crafting my reply.

The relationships that survived this shift became deeper and more genuine. The ones that didn't were probably built on unsustainable foundations anyway.

I've discovered that being truly known—flaws and all—is infinitely more satisfying than being universally liked.

That simple assignment taught me that authenticity isn't about being brutally honest or inconsiderate. It's about showing up as yourself and trusting that the right people will appreciate what you have to offer.

The ones who don't? That's their loss, not yours.

Sometimes the best homework assignments are the ones that break you open just enough to let the light in.