“The person who tries to keep everyone happy often ends up feeling the loneliest.” — Unknown
The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. It was Christmas morning, and I was seven years old, sitting on the hardwood floor in my nightgown, surrounded by torn wrapping paper and colorful boxes. My sisters giggled nearby as we unwrapped our gifts. My heart fluttered with excitement as I opened my next present—a ballerina costume, complete with a pink leotard, tutu, and matching tights. I could hardly contain my delight.
After offering a quick thank you to my adoptive parents, I dashed upstairs, clutching my new costume tightly behind my back. Alone in my room, I tore into the packaging, eager to transform myself. As I pulled on the soft pink fabric, I envisioned surprising my parents, hoping for their smiles and laughter. My pulse quickened with anticipation as I hurried back downstairs, grinning from ear to ear.
But instead of the joy I expected, their faces twisted with anger.
“What the hell did you do? You ain’t supposed to put it on yet!” my mother snapped.
I stood frozen, unable to comprehend their fury. Before I could react, my father rose from his chair and lashed out physically. When it was over, my face burned, my hair was disheveled, and my spirit felt crushed. I trudged back to my bedroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror, silently berating myself: I’m so stupid. I will never misread them again.
That moment became a defining one. But the truth is, my struggle to please and adapt had begun long before that Christmas morning.
I was taken from my birthmother when I was just ten months old and placed with foster parents who would later adopt me, despite their well-known abusive behavior. Like many adoptees, I quickly learned the unspoken rules of survival: adapt, conform, and do whatever it takes to avoid abandonment. Even in the absence of abuse, adoptees often carry an invisible burden—the internalized belief that they were unwanted or unworthy from the start.
This belief quietly whispers, If I can become exactly who they want me to be, maybe I won’t be left again.
And so, we bend. We become experts in reading faces, interpreting moods, and anticipating the needs of others. We learn to shrink parts of ourselves to fit into molds we believe will make us more acceptable. In my case, the ballerina costume wasn’t just a gift—it was a clue. I had never expressed an interest in ballet, but my instinct told me that wearing it right away might bring approval. Sadly, I was wrong.
As the years passed, this pattern of self-erasure followed me into adulthood. Adapting became second nature. My sense of self was so entangled with the desire to please others that I rarely considered what I truly wanted. My own needs and preferences felt foreign, even dangerous. After all, asserting them might lead to rejection.
A few years ago, my husband and I gifted our daughter a “yes day”—a day where she got to plan our entire schedule, and within agreed boundaries, we said yes to everything. She picked our outfits, orchestrated a silly string fight, led us to Dave and Buster’s, designed chocolates at a downtown shop, and even declared a candy buffet for dinner. Her laughter filled the day, and my husband and I delighted in her joy.
Later that evening, she asked, “Mom, what would you want to do if you had a ‘yes day?’”
Her question pierced through me like a beam of light. I froze. I couldn’t answer. The simple act of imagining a day designed around my own desires was strangely overwhelming. And when a few ideas did surface—perhaps a concert or a favorite restaurant—guilt immediately followed. Would my family enjoy it? Would I be selfish to ask them to?
That moment became a turning point. It exposed how deeply I had buried my own voice beneath layers of fear and self-denial.
In my early thirties, I finally sought therapy. Determined to confront the decades of trauma and loss that had shaped me, I embarked on a healing journey. Traditional talk therapy, trauma-focused modalities like EMDR, EEG neurofeedback, and accelerated resolution therapy slowly peeled back the layers. Each small victory brought me closer to my true self, allowing me to move through the world with more ease and authenticity.
At the core of my healing was the painful task of dissolving shame. Shame had been my shadow, convincing me that my worth was tied to how well I served the happiness of others. It kept me trapped in relationships that mirrored my low self-worth, where I accepted crumbs of love because I didn’t believe I deserved more.
But here’s what I’ve learned: loneliness thrives when we hide who we are. True connection can only happen when we allow ourselves to be fully seen.
As I’ve released my shame, I’ve begun to experience genuine relationships—ones where I am loved and accepted for who I truly am, not for who I pretend to be. This kind of love is healing. It is the antidote to loneliness.
For those who, like me, have spent their lives molding themselves to keep others happy, I offer you this question: If you had a “yes day,” how would you spend it?
If answering that feels difficult—if you worry that your loved ones wouldn’t care to join you or might dismiss your desires—I see you. I’ve been there. But healing starts with giving yourself permission to imagine something different. Imagine being surrounded by people who celebrate your joy, who want to share in what lights you up.
Because that kind of love exists. And you are worthy of it.
