I’ve always been a people-pleaser. I got better at my job when I stopped caring about being liked.

For the first seven years I worked as a speech-language pathologist, I prioritized soft politeness.

I apologized before offering my opinion and focused on other people’s comfort.

Taking this approach felt essential to my job — a lot of the conversations at work are emotionally charged for my clients and their parents.

One of the big challenges in this role is finding a way to tell the truth to a parent about how their child is struggling without breaking their heart.

In the schools, I’m required to meet with every student’s parent at least once a year to discuss their progress and services.

As a parent of kids with disabilities, I know how scary those meetings can be, and everyone reacts differently.

Some parents walk in the door ready to collaborate with teachers.

Some are immediately defensive or even hostile.

My goal was always to create a safe atmosphere where parents could process information and emotions as they worked toward a positive partnership.

I delivered difficult facts in a way that is traditionally seen as likable for a woman — by centering friendliness and hedging my language with lead-ins like “I could be wrong, but…” Over time, I realized I communicated this way outside those hard meetings, too, with colleagues and supervisors.

I’d been diagnosed with Hashimoto’s years prior, and now, it became symptomatic, bringing with it brain fog, exhaustion, and a host of other largely invisible discomforts.

The first time I voiced an unpopular opinion at a meeting bluntly, it wasn’t intentional.

The meeting was intense and long, on a Friday afternoon, and a parent had brought in ideas they found on the internet that I knew wouldn’t help their child.

Feeling bad for weeks at a time had stripped me of unnecessary niceties.

I told the truth to a parent in simple, blunt terms.

To my surprise, the parent was relieved.

What I saw in her kid matched what she saw at home.

After that day, I realized that a lot of the so-called politeness I exhibited was often a way of avoiding other people’s difficult emotions.

I thought I was centering other people’s feelings of safety, but I didn’t realize that people-pleasing behaviors also created a barrier between us, making it harder to collaborate.

I’m not sure when I internalized the idea that being liked would increase my chances of being taken seriously, or that self-censoring, smiling, and couching facts with euphemisms were the routes to seeming more pleasant.

Research has shown that women face so much pressure to be likable from a young age that it significantly impacts their self-esteem.

A 2026 review shows that women still receive negative consequences — like lower scores on performance reviews despite their competence — when they don’t seem likable.

A subtle fear of those consequences is probably part of why I developed people-pleasing behaviors, but since I’ve started dismantling them, I can tell that the cost of shrinking myself outweighs the reward.

There’s a big difference between communicating with competence and communicating to please.

I’ve spent the last year learning to embrace the touchiest of experiences, and I’ve proven to myself that it’s possible to be both kind and honest.

I still focus on strengths rather than negative feedback in work meetings and in everyday life.

And when I need to deliver hard news or an opinion I’m afraid will be unpopular, I’m learning to change my approach.

Instead of starting a sentence with “I’m not sure if I’m right about this, but…,” I now try to start with something like “I have something challenging to share.

Are you ready to discuss it?” Then, I state the facts as plainly as possible.

I’m learning not to be afraid of coming off too blunt or pushy when I communicate something analytical or dry.

The reaction is not always relief or receptivity.

Sometimes, parents or colleagues still bristle when I state something simply or bluntly, but I don’t mind.

As long as we are both being honest and doing our best to understand each other, tense moments can inspire us to work harder toward a solution, helping us learn and grow together.