The Other Side of Nice

For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been codependent.
I didn’t know it at the time — the word wasn’t even in my vocabulary. Even in recent years, when I heard the term, I thought it only applied to addicts and alcoholics. It wasn’t until my therapist suggested I read Melody Beattie’s Codependent No More that I finally understood. I related to every single word she wrote. Each chapter captivated me more than the last.

 I didn’t learn this behaviour on my own, I watched my mother be codependent her whole life, then I became coddepent and then eventually I passed it on to my kids.  

I had a good childhood. A roof over my head, food in my belly, and parents who loved me and wanted a better life for me than they had growing up. They were great examples of hard work and perseverance. They never lived lavishly, but my brother and I always had everything we needed.

Still, my earliest memory of codependency began at five years old, sitting at the kitchen table. My mother had just served lunch, and I was upset that my brother Kevin got a straw and I didn’t. Crying, I remember my mother asking me to calm down. Then it happened—my dad came barreling through the door with his “I’ll give you something to cry about” energy. It was the first time I remember getting “the belt.” And I know that something inside that little girl decided it would be the last.

Cue the people-pleasing.

From that moment on, I became hyper-aware. I took cues from my father—and my codependent mother—and tuned into every flicker of stress or tension in the house. I became “the good girl”: obedient, quiet, invisible when I needed to be, and never asking for my needs to be met. My behavior was praised, but deep down, it was exhausting.

Now, am I saying I had a hard childhood? Not at all. I never felt different from other kids, and the good times certainly outweighed the bad. Looking back, I can only imagine the stress my parents were under trying to give us a better life than they had. I now see, as a parent myself, that they did the best they could with the tools they had.

My dad grew up in a broken home, raised by a single mother with no financial or emotional support from his father. My mom was raised by an alcoholic father whose only priority was himself, while her anxious mother found solace in religion as a coping method.

So maybe it was inevitable that I carried that legacy into adulthood.

As I grew into a young woman, all my relationships followed the same pattern. I just wanted to be accepted. I know that’s universal — we all want connection. But I wanted it so badly that, somewhere along the way, I stopped being myself.

In every friendship and relationship, I became who they needed me to be — always adapting, always pleasing. It took me years to realize I no longer recognized myself.

There was a time when I thought being easy to love meant being easy to please. So I adapted. I adjusted. I became who people needed me to be.

In every friendship, I read the room and molded myself to fit it. In relationships, I mirrored what I thought they wanted—quiet support, constant reassurance, someone who didn’t ask for much. I never wanted to be too much. Too loud. Too emotional. Too needy. So I shrank. Smoothed over my rough edges. Smiled through discomfort. I became a chameleon, changing colors to match the people around me, hoping that if I was everything they needed, I’d finally feel like enough.

But somewhere along the way, I disappeared.

It’s a strange thing—to look at your life and realize you don’t recognize the person living it. You lose track of your own voice when it’s always being tuned to someone else’s frequency. And it’s not that people asked me to change—most of them didn’t even know I was doing it. It became my survival skill. My default setting.

And if I’m honest, it worked — until it didn’t.

Eventually, the cost of belonging that way became too high. The anxiety. The resentment. The quiet loneliness that creeps in when you’re surrounded by people but still feel invisible. I started asking myself: What do I even like? What do I believe? Who am I when no one else is in the room?

I didn’t have answers. That’s when I knew something had to change.

When I turned to a good friend for advice, she reminded me of that oft-quoted definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. It was around my 40th birthday and I decided enough was enough – I wanted to be authentically me.  Now, more than ten years later, unlearning this has been messy. There are still moments I catch myself slipping back into old habits—saying yes when I mean no, staying quiet to avoid tension. But now, I notice and that’s a start.

These days, I’m trying to show up as myself, even when it feels scary. Even when it means disappointing someone or being misunderstood. I’m learning that true connection doesn’t come from blending in—it comes from being seen.

I’m slowly coming back to me.

And if you’re stuck in “nice,” I hope you find the courage to cross to the other side.

I’m here for you—with open arms.

 Let’s Talk About It
Have you ever lost yourself trying to be what others needed? What helped you find your way back?
Share your story in the comments — your words might be exactly what someone else needs to hear. 

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