The Exhausting Business Of Being Who Everyone Needs You To Be

Are you the reliable one? The sensible one? The person who never makes a fuss, always understands, rarely complains and can generally be counted on to sort things out? Perhaps you're the friend everyone comes to for advice, the partner who anticipates everybody else's needs, the colleague who picks up the extra work, or the family member who keeps the peace.

You might even quite like being that person. There's something rewarding about being dependable, being needed and knowing that people can turn to you. It can feel like an important part of who you are.

But I wonder how often you stop to consider what it costs you.

I've been thinking about how easily we can become so accustomed to being what other people need that we gradually lose touch with what we need ourselves. We become very good at reading the room, anticipating reactions, noticing when somebody is upset and adjusting our behaviour accordingly. We learn what makes other people comfortable and, sometimes without even realising it, begin organising our lives around maintaining that comfort.

Perhaps you know that you don't really want to go somewhere, but you agree because you don't want to disappoint somebody. You might be hurt by something your partner has said, but decide it's easier to let it go. Or maybe you are exhausted, but still offer to help because you know somebody else is struggling.

Individually, these moments can seem fairly insignificant. We all compromise, make sacrifices and do things for the people we care about, that's part of having relationships. The difficulty arises when these moments become a pattern, and our own needs, feelings and preferences are consistently the ones that get put aside.

When being liked becomes more important than being known.

Most people who experience this, these patterns have a history. Perhaps you grew up in an environment where being agreeable was rewarded, where conflict felt frightening or where you learnt that other people's emotions were something you needed to manage. Maybe you became the responsible one in your family, the person who didn't cause problems or the one who understood that there wasn't always much room for your own feelings.

These ways of relating often develop for understandable reasons. They can help us feel connected, accepted and safe. If being easy-going meant that there was less conflict, or being helpful meant receiving affection and approval, it makes sense that we might continue to rely on those behaviours as adults.

The problem is that what once helped us navigate our relationships can sometimes begin to restrict them.

When we're constantly adapting ourselves to what we think other people want, we can end up feeling rather disconnected. We might struggle to identify our own preferences, feel uncomfortable expressing disagreement or become resentful when people don't recognise how much we're doing for them. There can also be something quite lonely about being the person who is always understanding but rarely feels understood themselves. I sometimes wonder whether people who describe themselves as very easy-going have had much opportunity to work out what they find difficult, frustrating or disappointing. Being easy-going is lovely, but it shouldn't mean that you must be comfortable with everything.

The difference between compromise and self-abandonment.

I want to be careful here, because I don't think the answer is to stop considering other people or to make every decision based solely on what we want. All relationships require compromise. We have responsibilities, commitments and people we care about. Sometimes we do things that aren't our first choice because somebody else's needs matter to us. That's not necessarily a problem.

What I think is worth exploring is whether you're making those decisions freely, or whether you're making them because the thought of somebody being disappointed, upset or unhappy with you feels unbearable. There is a difference between choosing to accommodate somebody and feeling that you have no choice but to accommodate them. There is also a difference between being considerate and taking responsibility for everybody else's emotional experience.

You can love somebody and still disagree with them. You may care about somebody's feelings without making it your responsibility to ensure they never experience discomfort. You can be a good friend, partner, colleague or family member and still have boundaries. Perhaps most importantly, somebody being disappointed in you doesn't automatically mean you've done something wrong.

What would you choose?

One of the things I find interesting about self-discovery is that we often imagine it involves making enormous changes. Leaving relationships, changing careers, moving somewhere new or completely reinventing ourselves. Sometimes it does, but oftenit starts with something much smaller.

It's noticing that you don't actually enjoy something you've been doing for years, or recognising that you have an opinion but rarely express it. It's allowing yourself to say that something has upset you rather than immediately explaining why the other person probably didn't mean it. It's asking yourself what you want for dinner, what you want to do at the weekend or whether you actually have the capacity to take on another responsibility. These might seem like small things, but they give us opportunities to practise listening to ourselves.

I recently found myself reflecting about how much of our identity can become wrapped up in the roles we occupy. We can become so good at being somebody's partner, parent, friend, therapist, colleague or carer that we forget there is a person underneath all those responsibilities who has their own wants, interests and needs.

I think it's worth making space for that person. Perhaps this week, rather than asking yourself what everybody else needs from you, try asking yourself a slightly different question.

What would I choose if I wasn't worrying about how my decision would make somebody else feel?

Are you the reliable one? The sensible one? The person who never makes a fuss, always understands, rarely complains and can generally be counted on to sort things out? Perhaps you're the friend everyone comes to for advice, the partner who anticipates everybody else's needs, the colleague who picks up the extra work, or the family member who keeps the peace.

You might even quite like being that person. There's something rewarding about being dependable, being needed and knowing that people can turn to you. It can feel like an important part of who you are.

But I wonder how often you stop to consider what it costs you.

I've been thinking about how easily we can become so accustomed to being what other people need that we gradually lose touch with what we need ourselves. We become very good at reading the room, anticipating reactions, noticing when somebody is upset and adjusting our behaviour accordingly. We learn what makes other people comfortable and, sometimes without even realising it, begin organising our lives around maintaining that comfort.

Perhaps you know that you don't really want to go somewhere, but you agree because you don't want to disappoint somebody. You might be hurt by something your partner has said, but decide it's easier to let it go. Or maybe you are exhausted, but still offer to help because you know somebody else is struggling.

Individually, these moments can seem fairly insignificant. We all compromise, make sacrifices and do things for the people we care about, that's part of having relationships. The difficulty arises when these moments become a pattern, and our own needs, feelings and preferences are consistently the ones that get put aside.

When being liked becomes more important than being known.

Most people who experience this, these patterns have a history. Perhaps you grew up in an environment where being agreeable was rewarded, where conflict felt frightening or where you learnt that other people's emotions were something you needed to manage. Maybe you became the responsible one in your family, the person who didn't cause problems or the one who understood that there wasn't always much room for your own feelings.

These ways of relating often develop for understandable reasons. They can help us feel connected, accepted and safe. If being easy-going meant that there was less conflict, or being helpful meant receiving affection and approval, it makes sense that we might continue to rely on those behaviours as adults.

The problem is that what once helped us navigate our relationships can sometimes begin to restrict them.

When we're constantly adapting ourselves to what we think other people want, we can end up feeling rather disconnected. We might struggle to identify our own preferences, feel uncomfortable expressing disagreement or become resentful when people don't recognise how much we're doing for them. There can also be something quite lonely about being the person who is always understanding but rarely feels understood themselves. I sometimes wonder whether people who describe themselves as very easy-going have had much opportunity to work out what they find difficult, frustrating or disappointing. Being easy-going is lovely, but it shouldn't mean that you must be comfortable with everything.

The difference between compromise and self-abandonment.

I want to be careful here, because I don't think the answer is to stop considering other people or to make every decision based solely on what we want. All relationships require compromise. We have responsibilities, commitments and people we care about. Sometimes we do things that aren't our first choice because somebody else's needs matter to us. That's not necessarily a problem.

What I think is worth exploring is whether you're making those decisions freely, or whether you're making them because the thought of somebody being disappointed, upset or unhappy with you feels unbearable. There is a difference between choosing to accommodate somebody and feeling that you have no choice but to accommodate them. There is also a difference between being considerate and taking responsibility for everybody else's emotional experience.

You can love somebody and still disagree with them. You may care about somebody's feelings without making it your responsibility to ensure they never experience discomfort. You can be a good friend, partner, colleague or family member and still have boundaries. Perhaps most importantly, somebody being disappointed in you doesn't automatically mean you've done something wrong.

What would you choose?

One of the things I find interesting about self-discovery is that we often imagine it involves making enormous changes. Leaving relationships, changing careers, moving somewhere new or completely reinventing ourselves. Sometimes it does, but oftenit starts with something much smaller.

It's noticing that you don't actually enjoy something you've been doing for years, or recognising that you have an opinion but rarely express it. It's allowing yourself to say that something has upset you rather than immediately explaining why the other person probably didn't mean it. It's asking yourself what you want for dinner, what you want to do at the weekend or whether you actually have the capacity to take on another responsibility. These might seem like small things, but they give us opportunities to practise listening to ourselves.

I recently found myself reflecting about how much of our identity can become wrapped up in the roles we occupy. We can become so good at being somebody's partner, parent, friend, therapist, colleague or carer that we forget there is a person underneath all those responsibilities who has their own wants, interests and needs.

I think it's worth making space for that person. Perhaps this week, rather than asking yourself what everybody else needs from you, try asking yourself a slightly different question.

What would I choose if I wasn't worrying about how my decision would make somebody else feel?