If You’ve Ever Felt ‘Too Nice’—This Is for You

I used to think being nice kept me safe. But really, I was just afraid to take up space. That realization didn’t come all at once. It started at a party, in a simple conversation, where something didn’t sit right.

I told an acquaintance I had just met someone I couldn’t place. I didn’t know how to be around him. I felt disconnected, awkward.

He looked at me, eyebrows furrowed: “Do you adjust your behavior to the person you’re talking to?” I almost said, “Yes, of course. Don’t you?” But something about how he asked stopped me. Shame flared. My cheeks burned.

I mumbled, “Well, I just don’t understand that guy. I feel on edge around him, that’s all,” and walked away. But his confusion stuck with me. It stirred something.

Wait, am I not supposed to adjust to people?

People-Pleasing

That moment cracked something open. I realized I’d been people-pleasing all my life. Instagram pop-psychology calls it that, and yeah, it fits.

I was raised to be a "nice girl." I watched the women in my family constantly tune into others’ needs. They smoothed things over, stayed available, and rarely checked in with themselves. I mirrored them. I thought that was love. That was womanhood.

Without thinking, I learned to read a room and reshape myself to fit. Especially awkward when two people-pleasers try to pick dinner:

“I don’t care, what do you want?”
“Oh, I’m fine with whatever, you choose.”
“No, I really don’t care, just pick.”

It’s funny, but also not. Because I often didn’t know what I wanted. I hadn’t learned to ask myself. And I know I’m not alone. So many people—especially women—never had the space to develop a clear sense of self. We blended in, took care, stayed small.

Why?

Maybe we were raised by loving people who never learned to trust themselves either. Not because they didn’t care, but because they weren’t taught how. Or maybe it’s bigger than family, maybe it’s how society teaches us to belong.

I’ve seen these patterns in people of all genders. But for my part, I think traditional gender roles shape how they show up. Women, in particular, have often been expected to put themselves second, third, last. That’s what love looked like. That’s what safety looked like. Not just in families, but everywhere.

And for sensitive kids—those who picked up on everyone’s emotions—it was only natural to develop hypervigilance.

This isn’t about blame. It’s about seeing the patterns we inherited, like avoiding conflict, smiling when we’re sad, or saying “it’s okay” when it’s not.

What Is Fawning, and How Is It Different from People-Pleasing?

People-pleasing means prioritizing others’ needs to gain approval, avoid conflict, or feel liked. It’s saying yes when you mean no. Hiding your preferences. Trying to be easy.

Fawning goes deeper. It’s not just a behavior—it’s a nervous system response.

Pete Walker, a psychotherapist and author who specializes in complex PTSD, coined the term “fawning” to describe a lesser-known trauma response. Like fight, flight, or freeze, fawning is how some people learn to stay safe, by appeasing, pleasing, and adapting to others.

It can look like:

• Reading someone’s mood before they speak
• Swallowing your reactions to avoid disapproval
• Shrinking yourself to be agreeable or invisible
• Apologizing constantly, even when it’s not your fault

Fawning is fear-driven. Reflexive. It becomes automatic. Eventually, it feels like your personality.

Safety

For years, I didn’t realize I was fawning. I thought I was just kind, easy, low-maintenance. But really, I was anxious. On high alert. Monitoring others to stay acceptable.

It wasn’t indecision. It was survival.

I kept trying to “fix” the wrong thing—thinking I needed to be more decisive or less polite. But what I really needed was safety. Not just comfort, but deep, inner permission to exist as I am. To speak and not be punished. To show up without performing.

And for that, I had to know myself.

Over time, I started to hear a quiet voice beneath all the noise. It had always been there, drowned out by anxiety and the habit of reshaping myself. Even when I heard it, acting on it was hard. I feared rejection. I feared being difficult. I feared being alone.

Ironically, I often was alone. That quiet, introspective part of me was real too, but hidden. Most people saw my high-energy, extroverted side, because I felt responsible for keeping the mood up. It’s been a revelation to show more of that softer part to the world.

When I did speak up—set a boundary, name a need—it didn’t always go well. Sometimes I was ignored. Sometimes I got pushback. My voice trembled. My asks came out as questions.

But that didn’t mean I was wrong to speak.

Here’s the truth: fawning isn’t your fault. And it’s not forever.

Reclaiming Yourself

You can trust your instincts. You can speak up. You can walk away from people who don’t honor your boundaries.

That’s what I’ve done, and I’m still doing it.

I’ve left roles, groups, and relationships, not because they were all bad, but because they didn’t fit. Sometimes I changed. Sometimes my values shifted. And sometimes, I simply hadn’t learned how to speak up yet. It wasn’t about blame, it was about learning what I need and want.

Yeah, it’s uncomfortable. There’s a weird, empty in-between when you stop performing, where the old mask is gone, but the new self hasn’t fully taken shape. It feels exposed. But it’s honest.

It surprises me how long it takes, how much patience it needs, but I can finally feel the transition.

Today, my life looks emptier from the outside. I say no more often—to plans, ideas, people I used to shape myself around. I’m cautious now. The future feels uncertain, undefined. Not chaotic, just unfamiliar, like the quiet discomfort of starting over without a script.

But it’s mine. That makes all the difference. I second-guess less. I’m less anxious. I’m rarely in situations that don’t make sense to me. There’s more room to breathe now. My life feels wider, like open sky instead of a tunnel.

In that process, I found a partner who shares my values. I’ve built a space where I feel safe. And though this blog doesn’t earn a cent, it feeds me in a different way.

Now, my life makes sense to me. I know why I’m here. I feel grounded. Centered. Because I’ve stopped trying to be who everyone else wants me to be.

Maybe no one ever told you this, or maybe you weren’t ready to hear it:

You don’t owe your energy to anyone.

Yes, be kind. Yes, care. But no one has a right to your energy. Your empathy is powerful, but it’s not your job to fix everyone.

Other adults are responsible for their own emotions. That’s not your load to carry.

Of course, if you're a parent, or choose to show up for someone, you can still hold space with love. But even then, you can’t take their pain. And no one can take yours.

No one is coming to save you.
That’s your job.

The Superpower of Being "Nice"

Let’s be clear: being nice isn’t the problem. It’s a skill. You’ve learned to listen deeply, to hold space, to see people. That’s rare. That’s valuable.

The power lies in knowing when to use it, and when not to.

I recently came across the idea of the “tend-and-befriend” response, coined by psychologist Shelley Taylor. It describes how people, especially women, cope with stress by nurturing others (tending) and seeking connection (befriending), rather than fighting or fleeing.

Gathering people, supporting them, protecting the group—that’s not fawning. That’s leadership.

That’s real strength. Imagine if we used that intentionally. Trusted each other. Built together. We’ve done it for generations.

That’s the superpower.

When I think back to that guy at the party—the one who confused me—I see it now. Months later, grounded in myself, I realized: he wasn’t confusing. He felt unsafe. I didn’t want to adapt to him. I didn’t want to be around him.

My confusion was my body saying: leave. A younger me didn’t understand that and tried to adapt, to people-please, to make him like me, so I’d feel okay. Now I know I don’t have to be the nice girl for people I don’t even like. I can just leave.

Now I choose connection that feels safe, honest, mutual.

I build places that make my heart sing, not shrink.

What’s one space in your life where you’ve been shrinking—and what might it look like to breathe there instead?