This is the mantra running through my mind as I navigate the snowy terrain of Northern Minnesota by snowmobile. The recent rain has left the trails with a sheet of ice on top of densely packed snow and rounding each curve feels like a potential opportunity for serious injury or death. I’ve heard about enough mishaps involving speed, tight corners, and bodies flying into trees that I take each one at a snail’s pace, maneuvering the handlebars and leaning to the right or left, my body jerking back and forth as I anxiously alternate between the throttle and brake.
Eventually, we hit a straightaway, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders ease a little bit. I pick up speed, my confidence gaining with the straight, open trail ahead. I admire the sun reflecting in a long downward beam from the sky, the light sparkling on the snow like little diamonds. Even scraggly trees look pretty against the bright, open landscape. Lost in my reverie, I fail to notice the dip in the trail. And suddenly, I am airborne.
Time stops in these few seconds. I can see the machine beneath me, my black gloves clutching the handlebars, my heart beating in my chest as I watch the red skis tip forward, inching closer and closer to the ground.
BAM!
The impact is sudden, and the snowmobile flies out from underneath me. My body hits the ground with a thud, and I roll along the trail towards the woods. Eventually, I come to a stop and hop up quickly, breathing hard, amazed to find myself in one piece. The snowmobile lies up ahead, idling on the trail as if innocent, puffs of gray clouds rising slowly from the exhaust.
Snowmobiling was never my favorite pastime. My partner at the time was an avid snowmobiler, and in the spirit of compromise, I did my best to embrace it. It wasn’t that I was against snowmobiles. Growing up, my dad would often pull us around the field in a sled or we’d hop on to take a ride down the road to my grandparents’ house. It was fun. But this was a different level entirely – involving rides in bitter cold that lasted several hours.
After a few years of riding as a passenger, tolerating frozen limbs and bumpy trails that jarred my lower back, I decided that driving my own sled was the preferred alternative, where I could at least have access to a heated seat and handlebars. But between the expense, frigid temps, and increasing level of risk involved, I was still a less than enthusiastic participant (internally anyway).
In retrospect, I wish I would have been more honest. My tolerance eventually turned into resentment, and I found myself annoyed with the amount of time and money that we were investing into this hobby. But it wasn’t just snowmobiles. As a chronic people pleaser, this type of behavior had manifested in several areas of my life where I found myself doing things I didn’t want to do, often burying my true feelings and opinions.
It’s obvious why this became problematic. Over the years, I found myself increasingly focused on being seen as easy-going, low maintenance, and agreeable, which can be great qualities – until you find yourself sacrificing parts of your identity, ignoring your own wants and needs. By the time I reached my late twenties, I felt like a partial version of myself, looking to others for confirmation as to how I should think, behave, or feel.
Correcting course is difficult, especially because changing one’s behavior and setting boundaries also means changing your relationships with others. For me, much of it was painful, some of it was a relief. One of the strange parts of being a people pleaser is that you’ll spend a significant amount investing in relationships with people with whom you may not even have much in common. As I attempted to distance myself from my people pleasing ways, these types of relationships unfortunately deteriorated, resulting in a sad and challenging time in my life. My inner voice took on a dark monologue:
Everyone hates me.
I have no friends.
I’m a terrible person.
What’s wrong with me?
With some reluctance, I made an appointment with a therapist, wondering if I was perhaps depressed. After several minutes of sobbing on this stranger’s couch, I paused and fidgeted uncomfortably while waiting for her response. Finally, she broke the silence and said:
“Maria…you seem to know yourself very well. But if you continue to live your life solely for other people, you’re going to find yourself back in this same spot again and again.”
Maybe this had been obvious to others, but for me, something shifted in that moment. It felt like I had finally been given permission to trust myself. I left that day feeling lighter, like I’d dropped a huge weight that I hadn’t been aware that I’d been dragging around. For years, I’d been allowing myself to fall back into old habits, returning to that which was comforting and familiar. While the future seemed filled with many unknowns, I felt a deep, internal peace, that whatever happened, I would be ok.
Clearly, it was important for me to take a hard look at this aspect of my person, and I think my life has improved as a result. I’ve also observed many good things about these tendencies, things I hope are worth hanging onto.
In my observation, people pleasers are also observers, taking in details that otherwise go missed. I think we’re pretty good at recognizing people’s needs and feelings. Human beings want to be seen, and people pleasers can be good at seeing.
And it can be beneficial to have people pleasers around when you’re forced to walk into a room full of strangers. These types of situations can be anxiety producing for even the most extroverted of individuals. But a people pleaser can be the Jenny to your Forest Gump. The one who quietly looks up and smiles at you and says: “You can sit here if you want to”. I’m always looking for the Jenny in the group. She’s the one who gently builds your confidence throughout the day until you’re ready to embrace the rest of the room.
Perhaps most importantly, I like to think people pleasers have an innate desire to make people happy, to find joy in an increasingly difficult world. They seem to have an eclectic mix of friends, understanding the unique contributions of each individual, how these may conflict with the needs of others, and can use this to try and minimize friction within social circles. And while some people just don’t vibe well together, a thoughtful gesture or much needed compliment can foster an environment where everyone puts in the effort to get along as much as possible.
Ultimately, life is a series of checks and balances, and we need a variety of personalities in the collective communities that we are building to function well. For me, recognizing that I need to surround myself with those who provide that balance in an assertive, yet kind way has helped me thrive. As a sensitive soul, I respond well to the “sandwich effect”. Throw in some awesome, feel-good vibes in between a couple slices of constructive criticism, and we’re in business.
What I’ve learned is that boundaries and honesty need to go hand-in-hand with the desire to be kind. This can be a difficult process, one filled with many setbacks and resets, but a process that makes me feel happy with the person I am becoming - someone who is not only kind to others but kind to herself.
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