You Don't Have a Caring-What-Other-People-Think Problem

I was ten years old, wedged in one of those combo desk/chairs, riveted by the teacher’s description of the Milky Way galaxy.

It was as if someone had opened a secret door inside me and wonder was spilling out. Questions geysered forth from my mind, urgent and endless. So I did what I’d been taught to do: raise my hand and ask. And ask. And ask.

How do we know how big it is? What's past that? Does space ever end?

I felt so awake and engaged. Everything fell away – my parents’ fighting, my frenemy, the strange changes in my body. It was just me, the teacher, and the Milky Way.

And then it happened. A muffled snicker from behind. A sigh beside me. An eye roll from the popular girl. Whispers.

The spell was broken.

When class ended, a boy bumped my shoulder as he passed.  “Brown noser,” he spat.  

I didn’t feel excited anymore. I felt humiliated. Something in me fractured and was never the same.

That day I learned that being smart wasn’t cool.

Worst of all, I learned that the moments I was least self-conscious were the moments I could be hurt the most.

Why We Care So Much What Other People Think

I've started to notice something.

It shows up in almost every conversation I have with women.

It doesn't matter whether we're talking about boundaries, burnout, perfectionism, people pleasing, body image, speaking up, changing careers, leaving relationships, writing books, wearing the outfit, or posting the video.

Eventually, almost every road leads to the same place: What will people think?

Everyone has had “that” moment, when their status in the group is in question and they are standing in the awful discomfort of rejection.

I’ve spent much of my life caring about what other people think of me. Family, teachers, friends, clients. Agents, editors, publishers.

That woman behind me in line at the grocery store.

That person with the profile picture of a truck.

My dog. Your dog.

I learned to filter my entire life through every lens but my own.

What Caring What Other People Think Is Really About

A few nights ago I was slicing zucchini for dinner and wondering: Why do we care so much what other people think?

And more importantly, how do we stop?

I realized how much mental energy I spend anticipating conversations with my wife when I know she's not going to agree with me or be happy about what I have to say. And how it's less about her response than how it feels to receive it.

How I used to do almost anything to avoid that discomfort.

How I don't avoid it anymore, but it's still wildly uncomfortable.

I was halfway through slicing the second zucchini when it hit me: When we say we care what other people think, what we really mean is that we care about their disapproval.

Because disapproval creates disconnection.

And disconnection threatens belonging.

And belonging is essential.

I tossed the zucchini with olive oil and salt. None of this would exist, I thought, if we weren't such remarkably social beings.

Which made me wonder: Can I figure out how to care less about belonging?

The Real Problem Isn't Belonging

It’s a great idea but quickly felt like a pipe dream.

If I have one core theme in my life, it’s a struggle around belonging. It has fueled all my worst decisions, shaped dysfunctional relationship patterns, and thwarted my self-expression for decades.

My biggest fears are around not having somewhere to belong. I’ve chameleoned myself in excruciating ways to avoid this.

For most of my life, anyone could control me with their disapproval.

And I’m not alone.

We’re wired for belonging. Long ago, being part of the group meant safety. Being pushed outside it carried real consequences.

This is why being rejected can feel both humiliating and dangerous.

Once I started seeing it, I couldn't unsee it. The problem isn’t belonging.  

It’s that somewhere along the way we started trading away astonishing pieces of ourselves to make sure we do.

When Caring What Other People Think Becomes Self-Abandonment

Imagine walking through life asking strangers for permission to decline an invite, to wear those pants, to say the truth.

But isn't this what happens when other people's opinions become the authority on who we're allowed to be?

Most women don't realize they're doing this. They think they're making choices. Being considerate. But they're actually taking a poll.

What will people think?

Will they approve?

Is this acceptable?

Am I doing it right?

They may seem harmless but those questions have real stakes. Real consequences.

We swallow our opinions.

We shrink our ambitions.

We laugh when something hurts.

We apologize for taking up space.

We stay in relationships that no longer fit.

We decide how we express ourselves based on how people respond to us.

We become so practiced at reading the room that we stop reading ourselves.

When belonging depends on other people’s approval, self-abandonment becomes the pattern.

When we do this, we give our authority to other people – loved ones and strangers alike.

And every time we ask the world who we should be, we give away more of our power.

The Way Out Isn't Caring Less

I spread the zucchini on a pan to roast, now wondering if I could override my evolutionary wiring so I could stop this pattern.

(Historically I’ve never, not once, succeeded at this.)

Maybe I'd been trying to solve the wrong problem.

The answer wasn't to need belonging less. It was to stop asking other people to provide it.

Because I’m so fucking tired of watching the slow-motion tragedy of women (myself included) sitting on their gifts because we believe a world that tells us they’re no good.

And that’s when I got it.

The decision isn't whether we'll belong. It's where.

We can keep belonging to everyone else. Or we can begin belonging to ourselves.

We stop waiting for permission.

We become the ones who grant it.

We decide we're acceptable.

That's self-leadership.

It's when we stop letting the world tell us who to be and start telling the world who we are.

We stop asking and we start telling.

Where We Belong

I want to go back and rescue 10-year-old me. To transplant her into a place where her curiosity would be celebrated instead of mocked.

But since I can’t, I do the next best thing.

I reimagine the scene. Me, unselfconsciously lit up and engaged with the teacher.

My peers are still laughing.

The boy still calls me a brown noser.

Nothing about them changes. The only thing that changes is me.

But their opinions no longer decide who I become.

The timer went off. The zucchini was done.

I’m 10 and 49 at the same moment. I’m still fascinated by the cosmos and ask a ton of questions. I have a loud laugh and like my zucchini just shy of burned.

I steal a piece from the pan and call my family to dinner.