“I hate how much I care what people think.”

When someone says this, it’s not just about people-pleasing.
It’s about being trapped in surveillance mode: constantly editing, tweaking, deleting parts of yourself just in case someone disapproves.

It’s mental contortion. Hypervigilance dressed up as 'being nice.'
The result? Exhaustion. And invisibility.

​

This line isn’t said lightly. It’s whispered, shame-soaked.

Because they know it’s costing them something—joy, time, presence.
But they also feel helpless to stop.

​

It worked once, more likely even more than once.
Being liked kept you safe.
Being agreeable meant fewer explosions.
Being acceptable meant you were less alone.

​

So now, even when you don’t want to care what they think, you still do.
Because on some level, approval still equals survival.

They live in your head now, rent-free.
They’re with you when you write, when you dress, when you speak.
They’re in the silence after you say something honest,
in the hesitation before you post what you really want to say.

And even when no one else is in the room, you’re still performing—for a jury that never votes, just watches.

​

But here’s something no one says out loud:

 

Caring what people think isn’t the problem.
Assuming the worst is.
And that suspicion doesn’t protect you—it corrodes you.

But caring what others think is human. It’s how we grow.
We need mirrors. We need reflection.

What hurts isn’t the caring.

What hurts is always expecting criticism instead of connection.

​

You brace for judgment, so you pre-reject yourself.
And when you never let others reflect anything positive back, you lose more than courage—you lose feedback, intimacy, and repair. You lose data you could’ve used to grow.

​

So, if this is you, what do you need today?

​

Not “stop caring.” That’s not the flex.
Not “just be yourself.” That’s not helpful.

​

You might need:

• A moment of privacy from performance

• An internal space where nothing has to be explained or defended

• You need a reference point that lives inside you, not in their faces, or your inbox, or a like count. You need to remember what you sound like when you’re not anticipating feedback.

​

It’s sovereignty.

​

And if you create? This pressure doesn’t end when you’re alone.

You over-edit your ideas before they breathe. You erase sparks before they light.
It’s not just people-pleasing. It’s art-pleasing, too—until it’s not art anymore.

​

Let them misunderstand you—and survive it.

​

This page should feel like slipping off your heels after a long, performative night.
Finally alone. Finally yourself. Sigh!