Posts Tagged → People-Pleasing

Day 13 – Heavy – Birdtalker

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dear Journal,

I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t touch.

Not from doing too much, but from being too much — too aware, too tuned in, too available. It’s the kind of exhaustion that comes from tracking every shift in tone, every flicker of disappointment on someone’s face, every unspoken feeling hanging in a room like thick smoke. I used to think this was empathy. Maybe it still is — but right now, it feels more like surveillance. A constant vigilance rooted in a long history of being needed, useful, or good.

There’s a cost to this kind of attunement, especially when you realize no one is attuning to you in return. I’ve learned to anticipate people’s emotions like clockwork, often before they even speak. I know when someone’s holding back tears. I know the micro-tightening of a jaw that means frustration. I know the inhale someone takes before they lie. But when it comes to my own feelings? They sit in silence.

This isn’t entirely new. Studies show that individuals with heightened emotional intelligence or early exposure to unpredictable caregiving environments often develop hypervigilance as a coping mechanism — a way to maintain safety or connection (McCrory et al., 2011). I don’t remember when I first learned to do this, but I do remember how natural it felt to always be “on,” scanning, adjusting, softening myself to fit what the moment needed.

And I’ve done it well — so well that people rarely question how I’m really doing. I come off composed, calm, capable. They don’t see the part of me that feels like a sponge saturated with everyone else’s emotional weight.

But lately I’ve been wondering if my hyper-attunement is just as much for me as it is for others. Like some internal early warning system — a self-installed safety protocol. If I can catch the sadness before it shows, maybe I can steer the conversation elsewhere. If I can soften the tension before it boils, maybe I don’t have to sit in the heat of it. There’s comfort in preemption. Control. And it’s not just emotional — it’s a form of self-protection.

Research backs this up. Shackman et al. (2007) found that individuals who experienced early adversity or inconsistent caregiving often show amplified attention to emotional cues, especially signs of threat. It’s adaptive — a way to scan for danger before it fully arrives. Even without overt trauma, the need to manage environments that feel unpredictable can lead to habits of over-monitoring. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing — creating security by becoming the emotional thermostat.

There’s another layer, too. When I was younger, I used to be proud of this skill. It made me useful. It made me valuable. But lately I’ve been asking: at what cost? Who do I become when I’m only ever reflecting others, rather than being seen in my own right?

Psychologist Elaine Aron’s work on Highly Sensitive Persons (HSPs) describes this well — the deep processing, the emotional responsiveness, the overstimulation that comes from constantly absorbing the world’s noise (Aron, 1997). I don’t know if I fit that exact framework, but parts of it ring uncomfortably true. Especially the part where solitude becomes a lifeline.

Sometimes, when I finally get a moment alone, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all day. And maybe I have.

I’m not writing this to blame anyone. Some of this is self-inflicted. A pattern formed over years. But recognizing it feels like the first quiet act of rebellion: to admit that I’m tired. To say that hyper-awareness isn’t always a gift — sometimes, it’s a wound that looks like a skill.

I want to learn how to turn the volume down. To step out from the corner of the room where I’m watching everyone else and actually sit in the middle of my own experience.

Even if no one else is watching.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S.
If this resonated with you — if you’ve ever felt like you’re carrying too many other people’s feelings — I’d love to hear from you. You’re not invisible here.

References:

  • McCrory, E., De Brito, S. A., & Viding, E. (2011). The impact of childhood maltreatment: A review of neurobiological and genetic factors. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 2, 48. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyt.2011.00048
  • Aron, E. N. (1997). The highly sensitive person: How to thrive when the world overwhelms you. Broadway Books.
  • Shackman, J. E., Shackman, A. J., & Pollak, S. D. (2007). Physical abuse amplifies attention to threat and increases anxiety in children. Emotion, 7(4), 838–852. https://doi.org/10.1037/1528-3542.7.4.838

Title inspired by the song “Heavy” by Birdtalker.
All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

Day 12 – Breathe Me – Sia

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dear Journal,

There are days when I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice. Not because it has changed pitch or grown hoarse—but because it no longer feels like mine. It echoes with other people’s inflections, softened by politeness, sharpened by fear, filtered through expectation. Somewhere along the line, I started adjusting to the volume of other people’s comfort, and in doing so, I think I lost the tone that was unmistakably my own.

This happens more than we admit: the shape of our speech, the rhythm of our thoughts, the emotions we let ourselves feel—how much of it is truly ours? Studies on emotional contagion have shown that humans can unconsciously mimic others’ facial expressions, posture, and emotional states simply by being in proximity. It’s a mechanism tied to empathy, but also one that can cloud selfhood.

Hatfield, Cacioppo, and Rapson (1994) described this as primitive emotional contagion—an automatic mirroring that helps us connect. But what happens when your mirroring outpaces your anchoring? When you pick up emotional residue from everyone around you, do you ever stop to wash it off?

There’s a kind of heaviness in becoming what everyone needs. You become fluent in others’ desires and simultaneously mute in your own. I remember countless moments where I anticipated the needs of others so well I forgot to ask myself what I wanted. Or when I held back an opinion not because I lacked one—but because I couldn’t bear to be misunderstood.

This internal tension is often framed by what Leon Festinger (1957) called cognitive dissonance: the psychological stress experienced when holding conflicting beliefs or values. For me, that dissonance sits in the disquiet of being praised for adaptability, while quietly grieving the erosion of authenticity.

It’s easy to mistake flexibility for peace. To think, “if I just bend a little more, things will stay calm.” But I’ve come to realize that peace without personal truth is not peace—it’s performance. And the longer I perform, the further I drift from the version of myself I once knew.

In childhood, I learned early on to interpret moods, to pivot my behavior, to soothe discomfort in others. That skill has been useful—but also costly. I’ve often wondered: who might I have become if I weren’t always busy adjusting to everyone else’s emotional weather?

Some researchers refer to this as parentification—when a child is placed in the role of caregiver, mediator, or emotional regulator within their family system. Hooper (2007) suggests that this can impair identity development, making it difficult to later recognize one’s own emotional needs. I think I carry echoes of that.

And so, I’m learning—slowly, sometimes clumsily—to find my voice again. Not the agreeable one. Not the reactive one. But the voice that emerges when I’m fully present with myself. The one that stammers when I’m afraid, that trembles when I speak a hard truth, that cracks open when I dare to feel everything.

Lately, I’ve been whispering things out loud when no one’s around. Just to remember the cadence of my own thinking. I’ve started journaling with fewer filters. Even reading poetry aloud in the kitchen, just to feel words that weren’t shaped for anyone else’s approval. It’s strange—but freeing.

It might take time, but I believe we can come home to ourselves. That voice is still here. Beneath the borrowed tones. Beneath the silence. Waiting.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S. Have you ever paused to wonder whose voice you’re using when you speak? If this entry resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Leave a comment, or connect with me on social.

References

Hatfield, E., Cacioppo, J. T., & Rapson, R. L. (1994). Emotional contagion. Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781139174138

Festinger, L. (1957). A theory of cognitive dissonance. Stanford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781503620766

Hooper, L. M. (2007). The application of attachment theory and family systems theory to the phenomenon of parentification. The Family Journal, 15(3), 217–223. https://doi.org/10.1177/1066480707301290

Title inspired by the song “Breathe Me” by Sia. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.