Last night, when my partner whispered, “I adore you… more and more each day,” it felt like stepping into the golden warmth of a perfect summer’s day—a gift, not only in feeling its light but in realizing I was finally ready to let it in. For years, a moment like this would have triggered an instinctive flicker of doubt—surprise that someone felt that way about me, followed by an urge to shape myself to keep the adoration alive, to head off any possible disappointment. But this time, something felt different, though I couldn’t put my finger on it right away.
It wasn’t until I woke up this morning, with that moment still fresh in my mind, that I fully grasped what had changed. The reflex that had been part of me for so long hadn’t vanished overnight; it had quietly faded over time, slipping away as this relationship unfolded. Only now am I noticing its absence, finally able to articulate what’s different. Although I’ve worked to let go of self-doubt, this subtle shift surprised me, highlighting remnants of my old way of being—a holdover from years of adjusting myself to meet others’ expectations. In this healthy, loving relationship, I realize just how much room there is to live freely and to trust in being enough.
Looking back, I can see that this instinct to please was shaped in early childhood, during those quiet, lonely afternoons indoors. As a sickly kid, I spent most of my time inside, kept there by my own health issues and my mother’s ongoing struggles—first with her mental health, and later with her physical health. From ages five to seven, those two years indoors became my entire world. Isolated from kids my age, I absorbed the habits and perspectives of my older siblings and the adults around me, trying to make sense of things beyond my years.
By the time I was finally allowed to play outside again, I was kept on a tight leash, confined to the small street where we lived. While other kids spread their wings and explored, I remained close to home, becoming increasingly isolated and insular. I understood things beyond my years, yet I struggled to connect naturally with other kids. I was a fish out of water, always trying to keep up but never quite fitting in.
Switching from a small, nurturing junior school to an impersonal, ill-prepared comprehensive school was a rude awakening. Everything I had been taught to value—and which I had excelled at—was now openly mocked and minimized. The environment felt cold and scary, and my confidence, which had once soared, began to deflate.
As bullying became a constant, I quickly realized that my way of being, the things I valued, were simply not welcome there. I turned to humor, becoming the class clown, because if kids were laughing, then they weren’t hitting me. But behind the jokes, I instinctively molded myself into whatever shape felt safest. Each version of myself became a kind of armor, a shield that deflected others' criticisms before they could cut too deep.
The survival techniques I developed during my five years at that school stayed with me for much of my life. As my mum’s health continued to deteriorate and she became less emotionally available, those same patterns were reinforced at home. I learned early on that by softening, adjusting, and hiding parts of myself, I could keep the peace; but deep down, I never felt I was enough for my mum’s love. No matter how much I adjusted or tried to be what she needed, I couldn’t fill the space left by her struggles.
Whenever love or approval felt uncertain, I’d instinctively shift or realign myself to keep it secure. This reflex to mold myself to others’ preferences became so ingrained it felt automatic. Letting go of people-pleasing has been a long, layered process, with early wins but lingering traces that still hide in unexpected corners, especially in my closest relationships.
After a prolonged period of healing and self-reflection, following the slow unraveling of a twenty-year relationship, I can see how this tendency to please was reinforced—where my instinct to accommodate was intentionally manipulated to serve someone else’s needs far more than my own. Untangling myself from that history has been challenging, but it has shown me how much space there is to reclaim—a space where I can be myself without bending to fit someone else’s expectations.
In my current relationship, I’m surprised to find that reflex nearly gone, replaced by a quiet ease I’m still getting used to. Its absence feels revealing, like stepping into a room within myself I hadn’t known was there—a space where I can simply be, without the compulsion to protect or please. So when my partner says she adores me, I realize my response no longer includes an instinct to ensure she keeps adoring me, or an impulse to scan myself for potential flaws she might see. Instead, I notice only a small remnant—a whisper of doubt, perhaps, but no reflex to reshape myself in response. This feels like healing, a gradual softening of defenses I once thought were permanent.
There’s a new freedom I feel in all my relationships now—a freedom to be open without constantly monitoring or adjusting myself. This freedom extends beyond just interactions with my partner; it feels like breathing unguarded, trusting that I’m enough as I am. This relationship, grounded in genuine acceptance, has shown me that embracing who I am, with all my quirks and edges, is not only possible but powerful. Vulnerability, once a weakness to hide, has become a strength—a quiet, unshakable confidence.
Writing essays like this, sharing openly with the world, feels different than it would have in the past. I’m no longer calculating how my words might be received or trying to smooth out the rough parts of my experience to fit someone else’s version of acceptable. I’m writing because there’s value in expressing my truth as it is, and because there’s strength in the rawness of being seen. For years, I thought being strong meant staying silent, making myself small, or keeping the complex parts of myself hidden. But now, I’m learning that true strength can be as simple as saying, 'Here I am. This is what I feel.'
By letting go of people-pleasing, I’ve come to recognize vulnerability as my superpower. It allows me to show up fully, unguarded—not only for my partner but also for myself. I can be open, unfiltered, and trust that authenticity, rather than perfection, is what deepens relationships and creates real connection. I wonder how many of us are still holding onto those old reflexes, waiting to discover the strength in simply being who we are. How many of us might find freedom in letting them go, in trusting that we’re enough, just as we are?
In the end, I’m learning that real love invites us to be fully seen, without needing to change a thing. This is the truest strength I’ve found: the freedom to stand whole, just as I am, to live beyond the need to please, and to trust that this is enough.