Shut Up Holly (Part 1)

You don’t deserve him. You’re just lucky he chose you because without him, where would you even be?

Your kids would be better off with a mom who doesn’t struggle with OCD and depression.

Nice job trying to fit in. A+ for effort, but you’ll never be as pretty as them. You look like a child.

Just admit you don’t fit in at church. You question too much…they are sick of your questions.

I can’t believe you said that. They’re definitely going to twist it.

They all laugh over your annoying voice.

You’re stupid. Stop trying to contribute to the conversation.

Look at all of the mistakes you’ve made. Perhaps you’re a mistake.

⬆️ Meet Holly—my inner critic, sharp-tongued and relentless. She got her name from my very first therapist, Barbara, more than fifteen years ago. Somehow, Holly always knows when I’m at my lowest; that’s when she speaks the loudest. If reading her words made you uncomfortable, I understand. It’s just as uncomfortable to write.

Holly is the worst. She’s the mean girl I keep hidden. She’s the little devil sitting on my left shoulder. She’s the part of me that fixates on every flaw, mistake, and shortcoming. I do need to make one thing clear though: Holly doesn’t speak every day. I’m not ripping myself to shreds every night I lie my head down. Holly hates that I’ve found clarity in who I am and what I stand for. She resists the truth that I’m a good person—still growing, still evolving. The work I’ve done on myself threatens her, so she waits. She lingers in the cracks, showing up most when my depression hits. And at the root of most things she says is one thing: people-pleasing. Let’s chat.

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I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to become a people-pleaser. This pattern has roots. Deep ones. When I really sit with it, I can see how much of this started when I was younger—when being liked felt the same as being safe, and being accepted felt like proof that I was enough. Making people happy wasn’t just something I enjoyed, it became something I relied on.

As an only child growing up with endless time and a deep sensitivity to others, I slipped naturally into the role of peacekeeper. If tension rose, I was there to smooth it over. If someone was hurting, I made it my mission to help them. I could work a room like it was second nature—it was my quiet superpower. For a while, it was seen as charming. Sweet, even. But somewhere around puberty, the tone shifted. Without realizing it, I stopped living and started performing, shape-shifting to fit what others needed.

One of the hardest parts of people-pleasing is how quietly you lose yourself. It doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no big, dramatic moment where you suddenly realize you’ve disappeared. It’s subtle. It’s saying “yes” when you mean “no.” It’s laughing along when something doesn’t sit right. It’s choosing what keeps the peace over what feels true. I’ve done it more times than I can count—shrinking my thoughts, softening my opinions, reshaping myself depending on who I’m around. All to become more palatable. More agreeable. Easier to love. But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself a really important question: What do I actually want?

You see, people-pleasing isn’t just about being “too nice.” At its core, it’s rooted in fear—fear of disappointing others, fear of conflict, and fear of rejection.

And because fear is such a complex, deeply rooted emotion, breaking free from people-pleasing can feel near impossible. It’s exhausting—not just physically, but emotionally. The kind of tired that comes from overcommitting, overextending, and overexplaining yourself, all in an effort to make sure no one is upset. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve found myself in one-sided relationships—giving more, doing more, bending more, simply because I didn’t know how to stop. I used to drag out relationships far longer than I should have, avoiding the discomfort of honesty. I’d put myself in their shoes, feel their potential hurt, and let that outweigh my own truth. So I’d perform. I’d smile, show up, play the part of the “good friend,” all while quietly feeling like a fraud. Because I thought that’s what being kind meant. But that’s not kindness, it’s fear dressed up as goodness. Over time, these patterns don’t just wear you down, it changes you. It builds resentment. Quietly. Slowly. Until one day you look up and realize you feel unappreciated, unseen, and a little lost.

And the hardest part to admit is that it doesn’t stop with surface-level relationships. People-pleasing also shows up in the relationships that matter most. With the people I love, the stakes feel even higher. I feel this constant pull to be the bridge, the fixer, the one who makes everything okay. When they’re hurting, it feels unbearable to just sit with it. I want to carry it for them. I want to take it away, smooth it over. I convince myself that if I can just manage everyone’s emotions, then maybe there will be no hurt. At times, it feels like playing puppeteer—pulling invisible strings, carefully controlling every reaction to avoid the inevitable crash and burn. Deep down, I know that’s not healthy and it’s not actually helping anyone. Truthfully, underneath that need to fix everything is something deeper: a fear of what happens if I don’t—conflict.

Now I’ll go to ridiculous lengths to avoid conflict. I’d rather gnaw my own arm off than be involved in any kind of drama. And while I don’t think there’s anything wrong with not loving conflict, the truth is it’s a part of life. And it’s something I’m determined to teach my kids how to handle better than I have.

I’ll admit, I don’t always stand up for what’s right. I rarely share my opinions in spaces where I know they might be picked apart. I admire the strong, outspoken women who are willing to step into the fire and say what needs to be said. That’s never been me. You’re more likely to find me trying to smooth things over. Keep the peace. Make everyone comfortable. But there’s a cost to that. Because avoiding conflict doesn’t just keep things calm—it keeps me quiet. It keeps me small.

There have been many times throughout my life I tolerated far more than I should have. Times I stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken up. Times I let people cross lines they had no business crossing.

It’s like I used to walk around with a giant “kick me” sign on my back. I truly thought staying quiet made me strong. I thought if I just loved people well enough, gave enough, tolerated enough, eventually I’d be treated the way I wanted to be treated. But that’s not how it works. We teach people how to treat us through what we allow, what we tolerate, and what we stay silent about. And for a long time, my silence was saying, “this is okay,” even though it wasn’t.

See how it all boils down to fear? My biggest fear when it comes to people-pleasing is the fear of failure and rejection. For some, rejection rolls right off their backs. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but manageable. For me, it’s always felt heavier. More personal. Like it says something about who I am, not just the situation I’m in. This shows up in my self-esteem more than I care to admit. For years, I’ve told myself I’m just not a dreamer, not a go-getter—but that’s the story Holly loves to tell. The truth is, I am a dreamer. I just don’t let myself dream out loud because the second I do, Holly gets louder. She reminds me of what could go wrong, how I could fail, and how I’ve fallen short before. So instead of risking it, I shrink it. I keep my goals small, quiet, almost imaginary, because if I never fully try, I never have to fully fail.

If you met me in passing, you probably wouldn’t see any of this. You’d see someone outgoing. Social. Confident. Someone who can hold a conversation, make people laugh, and make others feel at ease. And I’m not pretending when I show up that way—that is me! But what you don’t see is everything happening underneath when a depressive wave rolls in. You don’t hear Holly. You don’t hear how quickly she twists perfectly normal moments into something embarrassing or shameful. How she questions my worth, my intentions, my voice—without hesitation. It’s the overthinking. The second-guessing. Replaying conversations hours later, wondering if I said too much… or not enough. I let Holly shrink me. I let her silence me. I let her convince me that being liked mattered more than being real. But not anymore.

Now this doesn’t mean I’ve figured it all out. It doesn’t mean I suddenly love every part of myself or that I never fall back into old patterns. I still people-please. I still overthink. I still hear Holly’s nagging voice, especially lately. But I’m learning to talk back. I’m learning that I can be kind and have boundaries. That I can be thoughtful without abandoning myself. That I can be disliked and still be okay. And maybe most importantly, I’m learning that just because Holly is loud, doesn’t mean she’s right. So if you see yourself in any of this, if you’re constantly performing, overthinking, or chasing approval- I hope you know you’re not alone. And maybe it’s time for both of us to start questioning that negative voice in our heads a little more and trusting ourselves a little louder.

And to that I say, shut up Holly!