“Who am I when no one is watching?”
On people-pleasing and the slow erosion of self. Being liked is easy. Being real is sacred. A modern, funny, soul-searching essay on breaking the habit of people-pleasing, with help from the Bhagavad Gita.
I said yes again.
To something I didn’t want to do. For someone I don’t really know. At a time I didn’t have. With a smile I didn’t mean.
It was barely 10am, and I was already exhausted, not from the task itself, but from the quiet violence of betraying myself. Again.
And here’s the part that stings: they didn’t even ask nicely.
No emotional manipulation. No guilt-tripping. Just a generic “Could you quickly help with this?” and I folded like a paper crane at a therapy retreat. Not because I wanted to, but because something inside me screamed louder than my voice: Be agreeable or risk exile.
Hyperbolic? Maybe.
But that’s how it feels sometimes, like your entire belonging depends on the fragility of your yes.
When “Nice” Is a Disguise
People call me “so helpful.”
Which is code, sometimes, for boundary-less but smiley.
I’ve made a whole personality out of being someone who can be counted on. Need someone to cover your shift, edit your presentation, remember your cat’s birthday? I’m your guy.
There’s a twisted satisfaction in being the dependable one. Like I’ve earned my seat at the table through good behaviour. Through being useful. Through never being the one that says: “Actually, no.”
But “useful” has an expiry date.
And “nice” comes with terms and conditions.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot that my worth wasn’t supposed to come with a task list.
I started measuring my value in other people’s comfort levels.
In the absence of conflict.
In how many unread messages I responded to with excessive cheer and zero resentment. (Spoiler: the resentment still showed up. It just came disguised as fatigue. Or “random” back pain.)
When Did I Learn to Abandon Myself?
This isn’t just adulting. It’s patterning. Old, dusty, childhood wiring that still runs the show while I pretend I’m in control.
I grew up in a house where being “easy” made life easier. There were days when moods shifted like weather, and the safest thing you could be was agreeable. Flexible. Not-an-issue.
So I became the smooth one. The diffuser of tensions. The one who knew how to keep the temperature just right.
That training doesn’t leave you just because you get older. It upgrades, becomes your communication style, your dating strategy, your professional persona.
It becomes a survival tactic with a LinkedIn profile.
And eventually, you don’t even realise you’re still operating from that place — because it’s disguised as “emotional intelligence” or “team spirit.”
But often, it’s just fear.
Fear of being too much.
Fear of being left.
Fear of being known, and then… rejected.
The Problem with Being Everyone’s Favourite
At some point, I realised something disturbing.
I was liked by almost everyone.
But I wasn’t known by anyone.
Because being liked is easy when you’re endlessly adaptable. When you mirror other people’s expectations like a spiritual chameleon.
But being known? That requires edges. Opinions. Conflicts. Flaws.
That requires being seen in your not-nicest moments.
And that, my friend, is terrifying.
Especially when your nervous system has been trained to interpret disapproval as danger.
So instead, I wore masks. Of competence. Of warmth. Of chill.
And then I’d get home, collapse into the couch, and wonder why I felt like a stranger to myself.
Cue Existential Crisis (Soft Jazz Plays)
There’s a particular kind of burnout that comes from working too hard at not disappointing anyone.
It’s not the usual kind. Not the “too many deadlines” or “too little sleep” kind. It’s the spiritual burnout of performing your own personality for too long.
You start forgetting what your actual voice sounds like. You instinctively say “maybe we can reschedule” when what you mean is “I’d rather set my eyebrows on fire than attend this.”
Your preferences become like those apps you downloaded but never opened — technically there, but irrelevant.
You order what they want. You laugh when you don’t get the joke. You over-apologise for things that weren’t your fault.
And the worst part? You think you’re being good.
Where the Gita Sneaks In (Like a Sage in a Hoodie)
The Bhagavad Gita doesn’t talk about people-pleasing directly. It doesn’t have a chapter titled “How to stop saying yes to passive-aggressive colleagues.”
But it does ask a terrifying question:
Who are you when the performance drops?
And in Chapter 2, Krishna says something that wrecks me every time I really sit with it:
कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन
karmaṇy-evādhikāras te mā phaleṣhu kadāchana
“You have a right to your actions, but not to the fruits of your actions.”
— Chapter 2, Verse 47
At first glance, this looks like a productivity quote from a LinkedIn influencer.
But let’s not reduce this to a mug slogan.
Because this isn’t about working hard without expecting results.
It’s about detaching from the result as the reason for your action.
And people-pleasing, at its rotten core, is always about the fruit. The outcome. The reaction.
Will they like me?
Will they still invite me?
Will they think I’m kind, helpful, generous?
People-pleasing is karma plus fruit obsession. It's doing your duty only to harvest approval.
But Krishna’s saying: drop the fruit. Keep the action.
Do what’s right, not what’s rewarded.
Even if the outcome sucks. Even if you lose favour. Even if your calendar becomes gloriously empty.
Relearning Integrity
I once practiced saying “no” in the mirror.
Try it sometime. It’s ridiculous. And revealing.
I’d go: “No, I can’t do that.” And immediately follow it with 3 fake reasons and a “but maybe next week?”
It felt like I needed a permission slip to set boundaries.
I didn’t trust that “No” could be a complete sentence without moral failure attached to it.
Because for so long, I believed my worth was in my willingness.
To stretch. To bend. To say yes.
But the Gita doesn’t care about my reputation.
It keeps whispering: Do your karma, not your PR.
Which, frankly, feels very unbranded of me.
What Happens When You Stop?
Let’s not romanticise this.
When you stop people-pleasing:
- You lose some friendships. Especially the ones that thrived on your unspoken compliance.
- You get called “cold” or “distant” by people who were used to your emotional labour.
- You disappoint people — often the ones you tried hardest to impress.
It hurts.
But it also clears space.
And in that space, something strange and sacred happens:
You begin to hear your own voice again.
Not the voice shaped by optics or obligation.
But the one that says: I want this. I don’t want that. This feels good. That doesn’t.
It’s terrifying. And holy.
Learning to Be “Unlikable”
There’s a special kind of power in being okay with being misunderstood.
In allowing yourself to be “unlikable” if that’s the cost of truth.
The Gita doesn’t promise comfort. It promises clarity.
And clarity often alienates.
Especially when your old self was crafted for universal appeal.
When Arjuna collapses on the battlefield, he’s having a massive people-pleasing moment.
He’s terrified of hurting others. Of disrupting relationships. Of being seen as cruel. Of the social consequences of doing his duty.
And Krishna doesn’t coddle him. He doesn’t say “Do what feels right for everyone.”
He says: Get up. Act. Without attachment.
Even if it’s messy. Even if people hate you for it.
Even if it breaks the persona you built to keep peace.
The Quiet Practice
These days, I try to disappoint the right people.
The ones who never really saw me.
The ones who loved the mask, not the being behind it.
I try to disappoint them gently. Without drama. Just a quiet reclaiming of my time, my attention, my centre.
Some mornings, I still relapse.
I offer more than I want to.
I say “Sure, I can help” while my gut whispers: Please don’t.
But now, at least, I notice.
Now, I pause. Breathe. Listen.
And sometimes, I say no.
Not because I’m angry. But because I’m finally learning to love the part of me I used to silence for applause.
So, Who Am I?
Honestly, I’m still figuring that out.
Without the pleasing. Without the performance.
I’m discovering that I’m not always easy. I have preferences. Flaws. Awkward silences. Petty thoughts.
But I also have depth. Longings. Soul. Stillness.
And maybe — just maybe — I’m worth knowing.
Even when I’m not convenient.
Final Thought (or Not)
I’m not here to tell you to stop pleasing people.
I’m just saying there’s a you under all that.
A you that exists without applause.
Without agreement.
Without a curated reputation.
And if you’ve never met that version of yourself… I hope you will.
Because I hear they’re pretty incredible.
Still practicing detachment (and sometimes failing beautifully),
Sage No. 404
— Your glitchy spiritual friend with boundary issues and a Bhagavad Gita PDF in their Downloads folder