The Life You Want Might Cost You the Version of You Everybody Likes

Sometimes becoming more yourself means becoming less convenient for everybody else.

This one hits home. I've had people tell me: “I liked you better when you drank.” “You used to be fun.” And every once in a while, those words still flash across my brain and I'm just like... Really though?!?? Because here's the funny part: when I stopped drinking, I realized I never needed alcohol to make me fun. I AM the party. I'm loud. I'm social. I'm adventurous. I'm curious. I like to laugh. I like to go places and do things. None of that disappeared when I stopped drinking. So eventually I had to ask myself: What exactly did they like better? And I don't think it was the fun they missed. I think, for some people, it was the boundaries I didn't have. It was the version of me who was more likely to go along with something. The version who didn't always say what bothered her. The version who wanted everybody to have a good time. The version who was terrified of confrontation and even more terrified of somebody not liking her. They missed a version of me who was easier to access. And I had to admit something even harder: I had mistaken being liked for being myself.

I Thought I Was Headstrong

Years ago, a client I really admired said something to me that pissed me OFF. He said: “Well, you always agree with everything I say, so I can't really take your word for it.” Excuse me?! I was highly offended. Because that wasn't who I thought I was at all. I had always considered myself headstrong. Opinionated. Somebody who didn't tolerate shit. And in some ways, I was. But in other ways? That fucker clocked me. I was a people pleaser. I was afraid of confrontation. I lacked confidence in ways I didn't understand yet. And underneath a lot of it was this enormous fear that if I said the wrong thing, disagreed too strongly, asked for too much, took up too much space, or became too difficult... people wouldn't like me anymore.

So yes, I had opinions. But I didn't always have MY voice. There's a difference. And the wildest part is that even after he said it to me, it took me more than a decade to really understand what he'd seen.

Sometimes the Body Knows Before We Do

Finding my voice wasn't one big breakthrough. It has been years of therapy. Somatic training. Sobriety. Becoming more forthcoming about my work. Paying attention to myself. Questioning things I'd accepted as facts. Setting boundaries and then sitting with the discomfort that came afterward. And that's one of the things I've learned through somatic work: Change isn't only something you understand intellectually. Your body has to experience it too. You can know you deserve boundaries and still feel your stomach drop when you enforce one. You can know you're allowed to say no and still feel guilty afterward. You can know disagreement isn't abandonment and still feel your chest tighten when somebody is upset with you. You can know you're allowed to live differently and still feel panic when the people around you don't understand who you're becoming.

Because your body remembers what worked. Maybe being agreeable kept you connected. Maybe being useful got you praise. Maybe being funny kept attention away from your pain. Maybe being the easygoing one kept conflict out of the room. Maybe being who everybody expected you to be gave you belonging. Those strategies aren't stupid. They may have helped you survive. But something helping you survive one version of your life doesn't mean it belongs in the next one.

Everybody Isn't Going to Celebrate the New You

This part can hurt. You'd be surprised by the people you thought would be rooting for you through and through who struggle when you actually start changing. Because your growth doesn't only change you. It changes their relationship with you. The person who never told anyone no starts saying no. The person who always showed up stops being available on demand. The person who kept the peace starts saying, “Actually, that doesn't work for me.” The person who laughed everything off starts saying, “That hurt me.” The person who was afraid to be judged starts telling the truth about their life. And suddenly everyone has to learn how to relate to this new person. Some people will. Some won't.

Even my daughter has told me she doesn't know who I am anymore. And I can understand that. Sometimes I don't recognize me either. But that doesn't automatically mean something has gone wrong. Sometimes it just means something is changing.

There's Grief in Becoming

I've heard of people holding funerals for their former selves. I understood the concept intellectually, but I don't think I fully understood it until I started experiencing it myself. Because there really is mourning involved. I mourn her. The woman I was. The woman I'll never be again. The things she did. The things she tolerated. The things she survived. The ways she protected me. And yes, the absolute fucking BALL she had. I've lived what feels like five lifetimes already. There are stories I can tell and stories I probably never will. There were nights I wouldn't trade. Experiences that shaped me. People I loved. Places I went. Things I did that current me might look at and say: Giiirrrlllll?!! 😂 But I don't regret her. I don't hate her. And I don't need to make her the villain in order to become somebody new.

I actually think that's an important part of growth that we don't talk about enough. We're encouraged to look backward and cringe. I can't believe I used to do that. I can't believe I let people treat me that way. I can't believe I stayed. I can't believe I was that person. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life bullying old versions of myself for not knowing what I know now. She got me here. She found happiness in some incredibly difficult times. She figured out how to keep going. She found connection. She found pleasure. She found adventure. She protected me with whatever tools she had available. Some of those tools don't fit anymore. That doesn't mean they never served me. I can thank her and still let her go.

Growth Can Feel Like Loss Before It Feels Like Freedom

We talk about becoming your authentic self like it's this beautiful, liberating experience. And sometimes it absolutely is. But sometimes it is scary as hell. Because if you've spent years orienting yourself around other people's comfort, your own wants can feel unfamiliar. Your body may interpret that unfamiliarity as danger. You set a boundary and immediately want to take it back. You tell the truth and then replay the conversation for six hours. You say no and suddenly feel like a terrible person. You make a choice entirely for yourself and immediately wonder whether you're being selfish. That's why I don't think growth is always supposed to feel good. Sometimes the better question is: What feels true?

What Actually Feels Good in Your Body?

Not what gets the most applause. Not what keeps everybody comfortable. Not what makes you the easiest person to deal with. Not what looks good online. Not even what you were taught should make you happy. What feels good to you? And I don't just mean pleasure. I mean that deeper bodily sense of: This feels like me. Maybe your shoulders soften. Maybe you can breathe deeper. Maybe there's a quietness you don't usually have. Maybe you feel energized. Maybe you feel grounded. Maybe you're scared as hell AND something inside you feels alive. Pay attention to that. Because sometimes fear and wrongness feel similar in the body. And sometimes peace feels strange when you've spent your whole life accustomed to chaos. That's why awareness matters.

You Don't Have to Blow Up Your Life Tomorrow

Knowing what you want doesn't mean you can immediately have it. Maybe there are finances involved. Children. Housing. Family. Work. Safety. Responsibilities. Relationships you aren't ready to leave. A million practical things can stand between the life you're living and the life you imagine. But I still think it's important to know what you want. Because you can't see your options if you refuse to acknowledge the destination.

You don't have to quit tomorrow. You don't have to leave tomorrow. You don't have to announce anything. You don't have to reinvent yourself by Monday morning. But you can start noticing. What makes me feel alive? What makes me shrink? Where am I performing? Where am I constantly abandoning myself to maintain connection? Which parts of my life feel like choices I'm actively making and which ones feel like roles I'm still playing because everybody knows the script? And maybe the scariest question: Who might I become if being liked wasn't the goal?

Some People May Prefer the Old You

Let them.

They knew how to relate to her. Maybe she required less from them. Maybe she gave more. Maybe she stayed quiet. Maybe she didn't have boundaries. Maybe she made herself smaller. Maybe she was simply familiar. Their discomfort doesn't necessarily mean they're bad people. And it doesn't automatically mean your growth is healthy, either. Sometimes the people who love us see things we can't. We still have to remain curious about ourselves. But somebody missing who you used to be is not automatically evidence that you should go back. You get to ask: Do I like who I'm becoming? Does she feel more honest? More grounded? More alive? More connected to herself? Can she hear her own voice? Can she trust it? Because ultimately, the life you want might cost you the version of yourself everybody knew how to love. It might cost you familiarity. Approval. Access. Relationships. Roles you've played for years. Even identities you once wore proudly. And there may be grief in that. There certainly has been for me. But there can also be something incredibly freeing about meeting yourself without constantly checking the room to see whether everybody else approves. I loved that old version of me. I still do. She gave me one hell of a life. But she doesn't have to live the rest of it for me.

-Brittany A. Moore, xoxo

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