How Can I Stop People Pleasing?

Kumusta Tita,

I’ve always had a hard time not caring what people think of me. If someone doesn’t like me—even a stranger—it eats me alive. I’ll replay it in my head for days.

I guess you could call me a people-pleaser. I say yes to things I don’t want to do just to keep the peace, even with people I don’t like. It’s pathetic, I know.

Lately, it’s been worse. I go to this pole class twice a week with the same group of gays and the same instructor. They all seem to click with each other, and I can’t shake the feeling that they just… don’t like me. I’m not the strongest guy there, and when I try to join in, no one reacts.

Maybe it’s all in my head, but I feel like I’m back in high school, on the outside looking in. The workouts are great, and I don’t want to quit, but this gnawing need to be liked is driving me crazy.

How do I get over it?

Sincerely,

Pleaser

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Hey Pleaser,

You ever notice how some people walk into a room and instantly look like they belong there? Like the air bends a little to make space for them? Yeah. You and I? We’re not those people. We walk in and our first instinct is to scan the room like we’re looking for landmines—Who’s looking at me? Do they like me? Do I sound dumb when I talk? Should I laugh more? Less? It’s exhausting.

You call it being a people-pleaser. I call it survival instinct gone rogue. Somewhere along the line, your brain got wired to believe that being liked equals being safe. Maybe it was school. Maybe family. Maybe just life repeatedly teaching you that rejection hurts more than it should. Whatever the source, you learned early that approval was oxygen. And now you’re gasping for it in every goddamn room you walk into.

That pole class you mentioned? That’s just the stage where this old script keeps playing out. You show up, ready to sweat, but end up performing. Watching how everyone laughs, nods, reacts. Trying to find your way into the social rhythm like you’re auditioning for a part that doesn’t exist.

“They don’t like me.” You replay it, analyze it, assign meaning to every awkward silence. You convince yourself there’s something wrong with you because you can’t crack the code.

Here’s the bad news: you’ll never fully stop caring what people think. That reflex runs too deep. But here’s the good news: you can stop letting it own you.

Because this thing you’re calling “wanting to be liked” isn’t really about them. It’s about you not trusting your own goddamn worth. You’re outsourcing your self-esteem to strangers who barely know your last name. You hand them the power to define you, then get pissed when they don’t do it right. That’s like giving a drunk stranger your phone and being mad when they text your ex.

You say you know it’s ridiculous to need strangers to like you. But that’s not ridiculous, it’s human. What’s ridiculous is pretending we don’t all crave belonging. The trick is to stop mistaking familiar rejection for truth. Because nine times out of ten, it’s not that people dislike you. It’s that you’ve trained yourself to see indifference as condemnation.

Let me tell you something about groups like that: most of them are just a bunch of insecure men pretending they’ve got it figured out. Half those fags are probably too busy worrying about how they look to even notice you. You think they’re whispering about you when really, they’re just trying to hide the fact that they skipped leg day.

And yeah, maybe they don’t vibe with you. So what? You’re not going to be everyone’s flavour. Some people like whiskey. Some people like LaCroix. Neither one is better; they just hit different. You’re allowed to not fit every room. Hell, you shouldn’t. That’s how you know you’re being real.

But here’s the thing you can do: stop chasing approval like it’s currency. Start focusing on how you show up, not how you’re received. Walk into that class for you, for the sweat, the growth, the challenge. Don’t let some awkward silence rewrite your story. If you’re going to stay, own the space you take up. Stop shrinking to fit in.

And when that old panic starts bubbling up—“they don’t like me, they’re judging me”—pause. Take a breath. Ask yourself: so what if they are? What actually happens? The world doesn’t stop spinning. Your muscles don’t forget how to move. Your worth doesn’t decrease because a few guys didn’t laugh at your joke. You’re still you. You still showed up. You still put in the work. That’s what matters.

Let’s be real, though. It’s not easy. You’ll slip. You’ll overthink. You’ll replay a look or a comment in your head until it feels like evidence. But the longer you keep showing up and refusing to let that shit define you, the quieter it gets. Eventually, you’ll realise the thing you were running from, being disliked, isn’t fatal. It’s just uncomfortable.

And you know what’s on the other side of that discomfort? Freedom.

Because once you stop giving a fuck about every sideways glance, every cold shoulder, every maybe-they-hate-me moment, you start living. You start noticing who actually sees you. The people who don’t need you to perform. The ones who laugh because you’re funny, not because they feel obligated. Those are your people.

So here’s my advice: keep going to that class if it feeds you physically. But don’t treat it like a popularity contest. You’re not there to win smiles. You’re there to build something stronger than validation. Sweat. Muscle. Self-respect. That’s the real work.

And maybe one day you’ll walk into that room and realise you don’t care anymore. You’ll nod at the guys, stretch, do your conditioning, and leave without giving a single fuck about what anyone thinks. That’s when you’ll know you made it.

Until then, let the discomfort be your training ground. You’re learning to live without applause.

And that’s one of the hardest—and most liberating—workouts you’ll ever do.

Mahal kita,

Tita Slut