Why is it that nice girls finish last? While I don’t believe that statement to be entirely true, I can appreciate why the sentiment—especially since for me it wasn’t just a commonly held opinion, it was a way of life. It had to change.
- My feelings were often invalidated. Have you ever been accused of being “too sensitive” or told to “calm down” when you react to something upsetting/unjust/infuriating? Between the ages of 8 and 24, I heard those words so often that I should have had found some way to market them. I always ended up apologizing or just quietly accepting the criticism before moving on. The problem was that I didn’t actually move on, I stewed on it and felt invisible and unheard.
- I wasn’t being fair to myself. The “nice girl” label often comes with providing a lot of favors, and again, not being able to express a word of discontent at the risk of offending somebody. I can’t and won’t play the victim card here because it was ultimately my choice to put up with that crap. I could have said no at any time but I didn’t and it makes me wonder why. Was I altruistic? Maybe. Healthy? Definitely not.
- It made me sick—literally. By my early twenties, I’d had it—or at least my body had. My people-pleasing mind was at odds with my well-being and my body was quick to let me know. I lost complete control of my limbs during this period. My body would shake uncontrollably (sometimes for hours on end), my heart would be ready to fly out of my chest, or I would just become dazed and confused. I thought I was dying. Many frightening, painful months and one EXPENSIVE visit to a neurologist later, I was informed I was physically healthy. I was just suffering from extreme amounts of stress.
- It may have been part of an ego trip. This is something I don’t admit lightly because I truly do believe we live in a world where love conquers all and good will always triumph over evil. Not everybody has an ulterior motive for doing the right thing and I refuse to live life constantly suspicious of others. However, while my sense of moral responsibility is far more than this, I will say that a small part of it may have come from my desire to never be seen as less than perfect. Impossible, I know, but I do hold myself (and others) to extremely high standards.
- I was the emotional dumping ground for my so-called friends. I could never talk about myself without worrying that I was being rude for taking up someone’s precious time, so a lot of my friendships survived on a basis of give-and-take—me being the giver and my friends being the takers. It was always about them, even during the rare times I wanted to share exciting tidbits of my life. It was really exhausting for me—they didn’t seem to care.
- Thankfully, I no longer crave the approval of others. “Not everyone deserves your very best,” a colleague wisely said to me during a rather soul-crushing day at work. I hid out in her office for a moment of respite and told her what was going down in my life. I thought about it and she was right. Why was I devoting full attention to people who only consider me an afterthought? I wanted them to like me, but I needed to like me first.
- I let go of the people who don’t appreciate me and embrace those who do. One of the reasons we clear out junk from our closets is to make room for the new, quality items we’ve just gotten—or at the very least to declutter our space so we can better see what we already have. Realizing the people I really could call friends made me appreciate those quality people I truly vibe with a lot more. Plus, toxic relationships can really eat away at your sense of self-worth. I found myself seeking out such people because of personal issues and in turn, they did nothing but feed those issues.
- Happiness is my one true goal. Life for me today is about one thing and one thing only: happiness. I think, “What can I do today that will bring a little bit of joy into my life?” Sure, I’ve always asked myself that question before only to be frightened by the answers because I knew they were at odds with other people’s expectations of me. Guess what? I don’t care anymore.
