When I was in high school, I worked in a restaurant as a host. It was a big deal to me. All of my previous work experience had been leading to this moment: from the dish pit, to cashier, to bussing tables, and finally: host. I was really good. I loved it. I loved the busy atmosphere of a bustling restaurant in the summer. I loved the controlled chaos that came with running a seating chart and ensuring everyone had equal covers. Every night felt like being in the eye of a tornado, engulfed in the force of nature, and I'd never felt more accomplished than wiping down the tables after a rush and knowing everyone left happy.
But I wanted more, because I am cursed to always wanted more. After a year of hosting, I was itching for growth. Itching for a new venture and new success. I'd set my sights on waitressing. The waitresses in this restaurant were everything I wanted to be: pretty, charming, top of the food chain. All these things I, in my youth, idolised and thought were the pinnacles of cusping adulthood. If I could become a waitress, I could become beautiful and good. So I strived. I would bother everyone I could, asking for advice on how to become a waitress. Teach me how to write an order! Teach me how to greet tables! Teach me how to enter their meal into the computer program! Teach me how to make change! I wanted to be better than the best. I would offer to run food, expo for service, make desserts.
I hustled harder than I'd ever hustled and got absolutely no where. Bugging management weekly after awhile. Finally, one day, I got the manager alone and asked her point blank: "Why haven't you let me try to be a waitress yet?"
"You're too weird, too awkward, and not good with people."
It was a slap in the face. The cold, judging hand of reality. That no matter how hard I worked, or how good I was, I would never be good enough for the person I'd already been decided I was. I could hustle until my feet bled, I could fall down a flight of stairs twice and never file an OSHA complaint. I would never become a server because this person had deemed me unfit.
Yeah, I probably wouldn't say that to a literal child either, but hey. She did.
Subsequently, over the last 10-ish years since that conversation, I've heard echos of similar statements. Too weird. Too awkward. Not good with people. At first, they hurt deeply. Salt in an old wound, cut open and stitched back up.
After a really long while, they hurt a little less.
Now?
She was right, frankly. Everyone has always been right. I am all of those things. It is a very suiting set of adjectives to describe me. But the thing I've realised is that none of those things are bad, despite their attempts at being weaponised against my self esteem and self worth. I realised that I would rather be myself, unabashedly, than waste my time trying to become a version of me that is palatable to someone who would ever say something like that to someone else. I would rather be unsavoury taste in an assholes mouth than the asshole running theirs.
The purpose behind People Pleaser is to explore the thrill and joy that goes with just being the biggest, boldest, brashest version of yourself that you can. The authenticity which accompanies being genuine. I did not make any of this because I wanted it to appeal to everyone. Nothing will ever be cookie cutter good enough for everyone. There will always be criticisms and their venomous cruelty. But who really cares about the words that fall from a mouth afraid to speak its own truth? Why let those opinions keep you up at night when you could hang your own stars in the sky and watch them twinkle.
People Pleaser might not be your cup of tea, but I hope the message behind it is something you can sip to.
Too weird.
Too awkward.
Not good with people.
And never making yourself small so someone else can feel big.
