I remember lying on my couch, phone pressed to my ear, saying “wherever you want is fine” for the fifth time in a row.
My birthday was coming up. I’d asked my two closest friends to dinner, and when they asked where I wanted to go, I couldn’t say. Not because I didn’t have a preference. It was more like the words got stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
I could picture the restaurant I actually wanted. I could taste the dish I’d been craving for weeks. But what came out was “whatever you guys want.”
We ended up at a place I didn’t like. I ate food I didn’t want. I smiled through a meal I’d been looking forward to for months. And on the drive home, I asked myself: Why couldn’t I just say what I wanted? It was my birthday.
I’ve always been the one who doesn’t need much. The person who can make do with whatever, go wherever, and be fine with anything. I told myself it was a good thing. I’m flexible. I’m adaptable. I don’t need things to be a certain way.
But eventually, “I don’t need much” became “I don’t get to need much.”
My wants got smaller. My voice got quieter. I started saying yes when I meant no, and “whatever you want” when I actually had a preference, and “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. I learned to take up less space. And I’m just now starting to see it.
That night on the phone, I couldn’t even ask for what I wanted on my own birthday. That’s when I knew something had to shift.
I’ve been minimizing myself without even knowing it in these specific ways.
1. I downplay my wins as if they don’t belong to me
Something goes right at work. I get a compliment. A project I poured myself into actually lands. And the words that come out of my mouth are: “Oh, stop.” “Luck was on my side.” “Jennifer really had the idea in the first place.”
I don’t know when I started doing this. I just know that taking credit feels dangerous. Like I’m stealing something. Like someone will notice I’m taking up too much space and remind me that I’m not supposed to.
So I shrink my wins. I hand them off to luck, to timing, to anyone but me. And then I wonder why no one seems to notice what I’m actually capable of.
2. I apologize before I even say anything
“I’m sorry, but…” “This might be a really stupid question…” “This probably doesn’t matter, but…”
It’s a never-ending pre-apology for the space my voice is about to take up. I soften my own words before anyone else has a chance to react. I’m so afraid of being perceived as demanding or difficult that I’ve started apologizing for having an opinion at all.
I heard myself do it the other day. In a meeting, I raised my hand, and the first word out of my mouth was “sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. I had something to say. But my body was already bracing for the possibility that my voice would be too much.
3. I tell people I don’t need anything
I’ve made “low maintenance” part of my identity. I don’t need much. I’m easy to please. I can make do with whatever.
I actually took pride in being easygoing. But the pride I felt in not needing anything became a permission slip for everyone else to give me nothing. I trained people to ignore my needs by convincing them—and myself—that I didn’t have any.
Now I’m the last one to be considered. The one who gets the leftovers. The one whose needs get met only if there’s something left over after everyone else has taken what they wanted. And I have no one to blame but myself. I built this.
4. I don’t enforce boundaries—I just hope people will figure them out
“I’ll let you know.” “Let me check my schedule.” “Maybe, I’ll see.”
I don’t say “no.”
I just say words that sound like “maybe” but mean “please don’t make me.”
I’m so afraid of disappointing people that I’ve made my boundaries invisible. Soft, squishy, and easy to push past. I hope the person on the other end will notice my discomfort and back off without me having to say anything.
They never do. Because hoping isn’t a boundary. Silence isn’t a boundary. A “maybe” that means no is just a “maybe.” I end up overcommitted, exhausted, doing things I never wanted to do, because I was too scared to say no in the moment when it would have mattered. And then I resent people for not reading my mind.
5. I prioritize everyone else’s peace of mind over my own
Someone makes a joke that lands wrong. I laugh too loud to cover the silence.
Two people disagree, and I jump in with “let’s just move on.”
I can feel the temperature of a room the way other people feel the weather.
And I’ve convinced myself that keeping everyone comfortable is my job.
I didn’t realize how exhausting this was until I spent time with someone who didn’t do it. Who let silence sit. Who let people sit with their own discomfort. I watched them and thought: they get to just… be here. They don’t have to manage everyone else’s feelings.
I want to learn how to do that. To stop being the emotional buffer. To let other people hold their own discomfort for once.
6. I only show people the polished, easy version of myself
People don’t see me struggle. I don’t mention the hard mornings, the quiet panic, the moments I’m barely holding it together. I’ve convinced myself that if I show anyone the messy parts, they’ll see me as a burden. A problem. Something to manage instead of someone to love.
So I keep it all inside. I smile when I want to scream. When I’m drowning, I say “I’m fine.” I present the easy version and hope no one looks too close.
The cost is that no one knows me. The cost is that I’m alone in rooms full of people who think they know who I am. I’ve built a life on a foundation of “fine,” and I’m terrified of what happens if I stop pretending.
7. I suppress my disappointment because I’m terrified of being called dramatic
Someone says something that stings. I swallow it. A friend cancels on me for the third time. I say “no worries.” A partner does something that hurts my feelings. I tell myself I’m overreacting.
I’ve trained myself not to feel things I’m not supposed to feel. I’ve learned that jealousy is ugly. Hurt is needy. Disappointment is demanding. So I push them down, down, down, until I can’t feel them anymore.
Except I can. They’re still there. They’re just hiding. And one day they’ll come out sideways—in a comment I didn’t mean to make, in a silence I didn’t mean to hold, in a distance I didn’t know I’d been building.
8. I don’t realize I’m upset until three days later
This is the one that scares me the most.
Someone says something that should hurt. I feel nothing.
Something happens that should make me angry. I feel nothing.
I go through the moment, the day, the week, and I’m fine. I’m always fine.
Then three days later, I’m in the shower or driving on the highway or lying in bed at 2 a.m., and suddenly it hits me. The hurt. The anger. The thing I should have said. The boundary I should have drawn.
My brain has learned to suppress my own needs so fast that it takes days for them to catch up. I’m so good at being the easy one, the low-maintenance one, the one who doesn’t need anything, that my own feelings have to wait in line. They have to wait until it’s safe. Until I’m alone. Until no one can see.
Editor’s Note: This piece is part of our “As Told to Bolde” series where we share personal stories from individuals we have interviewed or surveyed. For more information on how we create content, please review our Editorial Policy.
