Why I Stopped Caring What People Think
I have spent a better part of my 33 years walking on eggshells.
I was paralyzed by the idea that if I showed up fully, I might get rejected and then my worst fear would be true: I would discover I was as unlovable as I believed.
Terrified that simply being myself could offend, annoy, or scare people off.
This belief unpacked itself in tenfold after my divorce, when my worst fear actually was realized, and someone who committed to love me their entire life no longer could (or maybe no longer wanted to).
Years of eating disorder treatment, trauma therapy, and post-divorce grief taught me that the above realization was false evidence. I’m not unlovable, and, I cannot avoid rejection. Life is full of rejection—the truth is the more we become ourselves the more we get rejected because the more clear, loud, and distinct we become. The starkness creates contrast for those who aren’t attracted to our way of being, and that’s ok, because it means we are finally bold and visible enough for the ones who truly seek us.
But this realization took years. It took a decade to get to a place where I loved myself, let alone see rejection in this light.
to read more about how I got here, read my memoir, “Where the River Flows.”
Loving myself was just a stepping stone. The real work came after, when I didn’t have to just love myself. I had to be myself.
Sure, I could love the shadow, dark, twisted parts of me that weren’t perfect. After years in therapy I relinquished the notion that perfectionism existed in the construct I’d once imagined it. In turn, I could love the parts of myself that were messy, different, or in progress.
But could I let myself be all of it? Could I allow myself to step beyond the unconditional self-love and into the unconditional being? The unconditional acceptance? The unconditional commitment to radically lean into living and releasing the need to be everything for everyone?
When I started sharing my life on social media, the real desire to be careful and conscious of other peoples feelings and experiences folded into this already existing perspective.
Suddenly, I was not only worried that being myself might end in rejection, but the real possibility that I might trigger people or say something that could get me canceled loomed daily.
This, I believe, was an important concern. I think it’s vital that as a species we are aware and conscious of the beings who occupy this planet with us, and considerate action is not only kind but responsible.
What unfolded, though, was an unnecessary bowing to the feelings of everyone around me. People-pleasing was already in my wheelhouse of go-to behaviors when insecurity arose. Though I’d worked hard in eating disorder treatment and therapy to let go of self-betrayal, the line between conscious consideration and people-pleasing seemed blurry, and my balance started to waver.
“Who might I hurt?” became the pre-requisite to every word I wrote, rather than, “Who might I help?”
When I started writing, my “why” was simply to make people one person feel less alone.
I spent so many years isolated in the darkness of my mind, and I didn’t want anyone to have to go through a fraction of what I did.
Writing became a way to start building bridges between these dark cavernous spaces. A way to create language and shed light into the corners we tucked ourselves away in when we thought no one would understand us.
I wanted to reach out to people. To extend my arms and whisper, “me too.” To sit in quiet humility and say, “even if I don’t understand, I am listening.”
What I endured was hardly painful in comparison to the lives of many others, and for a long time I played the game of “trauma competition” to try and prove to myself that my story was worthy of being told.
I know now that the only comparison I should ever make is to my past—to see how far I’ve come and simply honor my path. There will always be someone who has suffered more. There will always be someone who has more peace. Still, there is power in sharing the path I’m on, so that someone who sees themselves in me can know they’re not alone in the walking.
My why has not changed, but the how has transformed.
Because while I still care deeply about making others feel less alone, I care significantly less about needing everyone to like me in the process. I care deeply about how my actions impact those around me, and remain intentional to not be careless with people. And, I pay attention to the boundaries of my responsibility: I don’t extend beyond the limits of prioritizing my wellness or maintaining integrity of my identity.
Beyond the boundaries of my integrity of self and responsibility to the people I have relationship with is the realm of emotional babysitting, and that is what I am no longer participating in.
Something I say or do will always bring up something in someone, and that something is not my responsibility.
Once I’m aware—once I know what that something is (and if we have an established relationship that we both aim to maintain and keep healthy and alive), then it’s my responsibility to take that awareness into gentle, mindful action daily.
But this does not mean it’s my job to NEVER trigger people.
Because I don’t know everything—I can’t.
And life is triggering. It is.
And, (as I sadly learned too late to make this adjustment in my marriage) if I’m triggered, it’s not the person who triggered me’s job to change. It’s my job to understand what the old, unresolved pain that’s being triggered is, so that I can start to work through it, and heal.
And while being kind and conscious is radically important in building and maintaining relationships, constantly trying to anticipate everyone’s needs, reactions, and desires is not conscious kindness, it’s people-pleasing.
Stifling my joy, solitude, or pride does not mean I am humble, it means I’m ashamed.
Not expressing my humor, silliness, or levity because it might mean people take me less seriously as an author is not professionalism, it’s internalized misogyny and sexism.
I’m a whole, complete, fluid and ever changing human being. To even be able to call myself WHOLE and believe that is a victory in itself, and I’m celebrating the fuck out of that win.
It has taken me YEARS—almost 20 to be exact—to return to a place of true confidence and a healthy relationship to my yes, very there ego (if someone tells you they have no ego, run).
To be able to be FULLY ME without people-pleasing, abandoning myself, self-sabotaging, compartmentalizing, masking, or fearing rejection is an absolute Everest moment. I honestly might get myself a trophy. (Or a crown. That seems more fitting.)
And I get to marry this piece of the puzzle with the other, very crucial part:
the part where I get to have healthy relationships;
the part where my friendships are intimate, respectful, and nourishing;
the part where I don’t let men fuck with my boundaries and I uphold the same standard for them that I would expect from my own son if I had one;
the part where I express my anger with my words instead of stuffing it inside;
the part where I express my affection instead of fearing nothing on the other side;
the part where I ask questions from curiosity and actual desire for connection;
the part where relationships are about that scary part where nothing is known, but we keep leaning in because we know this is what life is about.
So now, I’m in a season of my life where I don’t care what people think anymore. Yes, of course, sometimes the caring emerges—I’m human and imperfect and this is not a switch I flipped off for fun. It’s a place I’m visiting and hoping to find peace in—not an arrival point.
Because it’s been a waste of energy to worry so much. That energy now is poured into caring for people. Caring about people. Caring for myself. Caring about myself. The caring is not paid to the what-ifs or the projections. The energy is not wasted in the wondering.
This is the season I am in. I hope you stick around. And, if the contrast is too much for you, if the shape I’m taking is not to your liking, you have every right to turn around, and leave, knowing the door will always be open for you should you choose to return.
Whatever you do, I hope you live with purpose, lead with love, and connect with courage.
XX,
Rachel
>>Learn more about Rachel’s journey with Eating Disorder recovery, depression, divorce, & finding comfort in the discomfort of living in her memoir, Where the River Flows.
>>Subscribe to Rachel’s Substack publication, The Messy Middle to read honest stories of living with uncertainty, mental illness, & life in the messy middle.
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