Confessions of a Chronic People Pleaser.

Listen to me: I did not want to write this post.

It feels too close to the bone, too real, too vulnerable to confess (and then publish on the Internet for presumably the rest of time).

This is something I know to be a flaw of mine. And not like a cute “ha ha, I bite my nails and hit curbs, I’m so quirky” kind of flaw. I mean something I genuinely wrestle with. And while I generally consider myself an open book, there are still things I don’t like admitting or digging into because I fear the consequences of exposure. Will people still find me likable if they know how messed up I think I am? Wouldn’t writing about my cats or the Taylor Swift/Travis Kelce love story for the ages be easier?

But no.

The quiet, persistent nudging of God compels me to practice what I preach; to tell the truth even when it’s uncomfortable, to lean into transparency even in the hard, messy stuff.

So here it goes: My people-pleasing tendencies have been screaming lately, and I am exhausted.

When I say I struggle with being a people pleaser, what I really mean is that I have a tendency to create codependent patterns because I need to feel needed.

When I tell you I’m a people pleaser, I’m confessing that I fear rejection so deeply I’ll do almost anything to avoid it. I’ll stay silent when I should speak up, push myself past healthy limits, agree to things I don’t want to do, show up when I have nothing left to give. And I’ll smile through it all, pretending to be the fixer, the helper, the one who has it together, so no one ever sees the cracks I’m afraid I’ll fall into.

I hate conflict with friends and family, so I avoid it—even when avoidance becomes its own kind of harm.

I fangirl over people who can confidently say “no,” while quietly resenting them for how easy it seems.

I’m not good with boundaries.

And if I’m really honest, it’s because I don’t always believe I’m worthy of love when I’m not useful.

I know better, of course. I preach about inherent worth and divine belovedness. I tell students and friends that grace is not performance-based. But there are days when my heart forgets what my head knows—days when I still act like love must be earned through effort, availability, or self-sacrifice.

But here’s the thing I’m learning: The Gospel is for people like me: the ones who try too hard, stretch too thin, and confuse exhaustion with holiness.

Jesus doesn’t love me because I’m needed. Jesus loves me because I am.

And that means I can rest. I can disappoint people. I can say no.

The Kingdom does not collapse when I nap or leave a text unanswered.

And maybe freedom isn’t some grand spiritual breakthrough at all...maybe it’s the quiet, daily practice of believing that being loved and being useful are not the same thing.

The Lord your God is in your midst,

a mighty one who will save;

he will rejoice over you with gladness;

he will quiet you by his love;

he will exult over you with loud singing.

-Zeph. 3:17