Different Paths to Belonging

People-Pleasing vs Withdrawing, and the Underlying Need to Feel Safe

I used to think of myself as someone who could fade into the background. I didn’t take up space. I learned early how to stay small—how to keep people comfortable by remaining invisible.

So when one of my daughters started out timid and shy, I recognized that in her. She was soft-spoken. Bashful. Always observing.

Over the years, she became more social, constantly surrounded by people. She seemed more confident, more outgoing. I was relieved to think she’s grown out of the shyness I never could.

But some days, I’m not so sure. Because what I see in her now doesn’t always look like confidence. It can sometimes look like "people-pleasing". And that’s a different kind of disappearing.

Where I used to shrink into the background, she’s often ringed with friends, well-liked and socially fluid. Where I kept my head down and avoided attention, she’s learned to accept it with a practiced confidence. But beneath those surface differences, I’m starting to see something we share.

We’ve both learned to read a room. We’ve both adapted to keep peace. And we’ve both wrestled with the question: "What do I have to be to feel accepted here?" Her version can sometimes look like people-pleasing. Mine looked like disappearing. And both, I think, were ways of trying to feel safe.

My daughter wasn’t always this outgoing. She used to be painfully shy—reserved, cautious, unsure of how or where she fit in and she relied heavily on her fearlessly outgoing, social butterfly twin. So when she started coming out of her shell, I felt proud. Relieved, even.

But I'm beginning to see the nuance. She didn’t just find her voice—she learned how to shape it accordingly. She became someone who could read what others wanted and offer it instinctively. It’s a gift, in a way. She connects deeply, makes people comfortable, and knows what to say and what not to say.

But sometimes I wonder: "Does she feel like she can be herself, even when the room wants something else?" I recognize the effort behind that flexibility. Because I once went in the opposite direction.

I didn’t try to please people. I tried to avoid needing anything from them at all. I stayed small so I wouldn’t take up space. Introverted so as not to attract attention.

If she learned to adapt by showing up for others, I learned to adapt by disappearing.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize we’re not so different. Her people-pleasing isn’t about being fake. It’s about staying connected. My withdrawal wasn’t about not caring. It was about protecting myself. Both patterns came from the same place:

• Wanting to belong.

• Wanting to feel safe.

• Wanting to avoid rejection, shame, or conflict.

For a lot of people—especially girls who are universally taught to be “nice” above all else—people-pleasing isn’t a personality trait. It’s a protection strategy. But the cost can be steep: you lose access to your own wants, needs, opinions—and even your voice.

You forget how to say:

• “I don’t like that.”

• “That hurt my feelings.”

• “I'd rather not.”

Because those words threaten the delicate image of “easygoing,” “chill,” “likable,” or “cool.”

And for someone who’s overcome feeling invisible, that image can feel like everything.

I want her to know she doesn’t have to buy her belonging with self-betrayal. That she is not more lovable when she’s convenient. That her “no” doesn’t make her difficult—it makes her honest. And that her real self—unfiltered, messy, and all—is still enough.

And I’m trying to offer her that truth by modeling it myself.

But every now and then, I have to catch myself:

• When I say “it’s fine” and it’s not.

• When I say “I don’t care” because I don’t want to cause conflict.

• When I feel uncomfortable just saying what I need.

People-pleasing may look different on me than it does on her, but the root is the same: fear of disconnection. It’s hard to unlearn. Particularly as a teenager, where praise, approval, and popularity feel like the only proof that you’re okay.

But what I'm hoping to help her see, is that being liked by everyone doesn’t mean you’re safe. It means you’re edited. I want her to know what it feels like to be liked for who she actually is. Not for who she thinks she has to be. And I’m still learning how to offer that to myself, too.

She found safety in being likable. I found safety in being invisible.

Neither of us was wrong for choosing what worked at the time. We were just doing what we needed to do to feel okay. Now, as I work on showing up more honestly in my life—saying what I mean, owning what I feel—I wonder what she’s working through, in her own way.

I don’t want to change her or “fix” anything. I just hope she knows that she doesn’t have to work hard to be accepted. That her value doesn’t depend on how agreeable or accommodating she is. That she’s still loved when she says “no” or sets a boundary.

And I hope she sees that in me, too. That I’m learning to take up space. To speak my truth, even if it makes things awkward. To believe that I can be seen and still be safe. We’re both still learning. She moves toward people. I moved away from them. But we both, at our core, just want to feel like we belong.

Perhaps the work now—for both of us—is learning how to be real even when it’s risky. Trusting that the right people will stay, not because we’re agreeable, but because we’re authentic. And maybe now we get to practice a new kind of belonging. Not based on how well we manage others’ expectations, but on how kindly we can come home to ourselves.

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