Self-Trust Changed My Appetite for Approval (And I'm No Longer Starving)

The hungrier I was for approval, the easier I was to control. Self-trust changed that dynamic.

Lately, I’ve been noticing people noticing me.

Sometimes somebody looks a little longer than usual. Their posture shifts. There is a curiosity there, or what feels like respect, even though nobody has said anything. I notice it in familiar spaces, but also in public places where I may be one of only a few Black women in the room.

It doesn’t always feel negative. A lot of the time, it seems like people are trying to figure out what they are picking up from me.

I don’t know whether this has always happened and I was too busy monitoring myself and everybody else to notice it, or whether the way I carry myself has actually changed. It may be a little of both.

I have always had a bold, rebellious streak. I questioned things. I challenged what didn’t make sense. I resisted becoming exactly who other people wanted me to be.

But I was also too nice in ways that cost me.

I could push back and then overexplain why I pushed back. I could disagree and then soften everything so nobody felt too uncomfortable. I could refuse to become who people wanted me to be while still worrying about how they felt about my refusal. That version of me had fire, but she was still checking the room to see how everybody felt about the heat.

Now, I own myself differently.

I’m not trying to provoke anybody, but I’m also not trying to disappear. I don’t feel harder than I used to. I just feel less pulled around by every reaction. I’m more aware that people carry their own histories, insecurities, assumptions, moods, and whatever else they walked in with that day. Not everything is about me, even when it lands near me. Realizing that has made me more compassionate, but it has also made me less likely to take responsibility for every shift in the room.

So now I pay even more attention than I previously did, but for different reasons. Some people seem curious. Some seem respectful. Some may be uncomfortable. Some may not like me at all. And sometimes I honestly don’t know what they are thinking. The difference is that I no longer feel like I have to figure it out and then adjust myself accordingly.

The way somebody treats me can still affect me. I’m human. But I don’t automatically turn their behavior into proof that something must be wrong with me or that I am always at fault anymore. Sometimes the way a person relates to me is simply showing me something about them, the dynamic between us, or what they are capable of offering. That's what I noticed first. Then I started noticing what had changed between me and the people who were used to a different version of me.

The Internal Shift: When Other People’s Approval Loses Its Leverage

Once I stopped organizing myself around being approved of, things—and people—got weird. I think some people could feel the shift before either of us knew what to call it. They may not have known exactly what was different, but I could tell when someone realized they no longer had the same access to my habit of keeping them comfortable while forgetting about myself. Their opinions still entered the room. Their judgments, slick remarks, and sometimes downright disrespect still happened. What changed was what I did with them.

I was no longer immediately handing somebody else the authority to tell me what happened, what I meant, how I should feel about it, or whether my response was “acceptable.” I have responded with a simple, “I feel differently, but okay,” and watched the moment land. And by “okay,” I did not mean they had convinced me. I meant: I heard you. I still feel how I feel. I’m not fighting to be heard or understood by you. What surprised me was how steady I felt afterward. I wasn’t scrambling to defend myself, prove my point, or keep explaining myself just to be believed—or, better yet, considered.

I could just stay with myself. That was new.

And honestly, it felt a little disorienting at first. I had spent so much time handing my power away that trusting myself felt almost rude. Especially around people who were used to me second-guessing myself, overexplaining, or bending over backward to make sure they never had to sit with the discomfort of how they had affected me.

I was also starting to see how much space I had held for people who did not hold much space for me in return.

I wanted so badly to be understood that I explained everything down to the bone. I softened sentences to protect other people’s feelings, even when they showed very little concern for mine. Half the time, they did not even know I was cushioning the truth for them. They just enjoyed the soft landing, unaware that care was deliberately extended on their behalf. Ain’t some sh*t!?

The Training: How Approval Became Safety

For a long time, I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t realize I was helping myself disappear.

Approval meant safety in my world, although I would not have called it that at the time. I would have called myself thoughtful, considerate, understanding, easy to get along with, and possibly even “mature.” Those were the little gold-star words I received for learning how to disappear quietly and politely.

My kindness was often treated like something people could use instead of something they valued. My thoughtfulness became expected. My emotional labor became so normal that people rarely seemed to notice I was doing it, much less wonder what it was costing me. And because I was used to being overlooked, I rarely stopped to ask what I was receiving in return.

Growing up as the family scapegoat—better known as the black sheep—meant my reality was always on trial. I could know what happened and still hear, “You’re trippin’. It didn’t happen like that.” I could know that someone’s words or actions hurt me and still be told I was being “dramatic.” I could point out a pattern that kept repeating and somehow became the one accused of making things difficult. Sometimes the whole room seemed more concerned with my tone, my response, or how inconvenient my hurt was than with whatever had hurt me in the first place.

After enough of that, I didn’t just begin doubting my memories. I started doubting my right to have a memory at all. I checked other people’s faces before trusting my own body. I looked around the room for permission to feel what I already felt. I waited for someone else to agree that something was wrong before I let myself respond to it. Not every time—my rebellious streak still had something to say—but often enough. I began relying on people outside of me to confirm my reality, even though many of them had already shown me they either could not or would not do that. I often questioned whether I was really difficult, too sensitive, too angry, or asking for too much. I wanted someone to co-sign my thoughts, feelings, needs, and boundaries so I could stop feeling guilty for having them. I even felt like people needed to agree that my boundaries were reasonable before I was allowed to have them.

Their reactions became a compass. A crooked compass, but a compass nonetheless.

Approval Felt Like Food

That crooked compass steered a lot of my people-pleasing. It was an adaptation to my environment, not a reflection of my true personality.

What I needed was attunement—a steady, responsive kind of care that allowed me to feel seen without having to perform for it. That wasn’t consistently available to me. Instead, I learned that connection came through usefulness. I learned to be thoughtful, considerate, agreeable, and emotionally available in ways that made me more acceptable.

So approval became the closest thing I had to nourishment.

When people understood me, I felt full. When they praised me, I felt steady. When they agreed with me, I felt safe. When they were pleased with me, I felt like maybe I could rest for a minute. The problem was that none of it lasted very long. I would get a little reassurance, feel better for a moment, and then need another serving the next time somebody questioned me, misunderstood me, mistreated me, or pulled away.

What I was reaching for was attunement, but what I received was conditional approval. And conditional approval is not nourishment. It can feel good. It can affirm something I already know. It can add a little flavor to the connection. But it cannot sustain a sense of self that I had not yet learned to fully hold on my own.

What Emotional Independence Has Actually Looked Like

I used to imagine confidence as something louder than what I have actually experienced. I thought maybe one day I would wake up, throw on a red lip, stop caring what anybody thought, and be done with the whole matter. That is not what happened.

Emotional independence has been much quieter for me. It has looked like not explaining myself again after I already said what I meant. It has looked like letting someone be disappointed without immediately trying to make them feel more comfortable. It has looked like wanting reassurance and checking in with myself before reaching for someone else. It has looked like hearing someone’s opinion and realizing, “That is information. It is not automatically a call to action.” That was a real shift for me.

Other people’s moods and opinions used to change the weather inside my body. Someone could become distant, irritated, or disapproving, and I would immediately start adjusting myself. I would rethink what I said, soften what I needed, or start wondering how to make everything comfortable again. Now, I can notice when someone’s mood turns cloudy without assuming I caused it or making it my job to clear the sky.

I'm not a f*cking meteorologist!

I can care without collapsing into someone else’s feelings. I can listen without automatically agreeing. I can love people without giving them authority over my thoughts and emotions. I still care what certain people think. I am not pretending to be above that. I care how I affect people, and I still want to be seen, understood, and treated with consideration. The difference is that I no longer need every response to confirm who I am.

Reserved For Me

That is why I keep coming back to the image of the table. For so long, I kept waiting for somebody else to bring approval to the table. I kept thinking the right person, the right explanation, or the right version of me would finally make people see what I had been trying to show them.

Now, I understand that my sense of approval is authored by me.

That does not mean other people’s validation has no value. Healthy validation still matters. I still need people who can sit with me sometimes and say, “That hurt. I understand why.” I need tenderness, honesty, mirrors, and witnesses just like anybody else.

I can need connection without needing someone else’s permission to trust myself.

I can appreciate agreement without requiring it. I can receive praise without building my identity around it. I can be misunderstood without immediately assuming I must have explained myself incorrectly. I can let someone disagree with me and still remain connected to what I know, feel, and need. That is what emotional independence has started to mean for me. It is not about pulling away or pretending nothing touches me. It is about staying present with myself, even when things feel hard, and not abandoning what I know just to keep the peace.

It's self-belonging.

It is no longer walking around with an empty plate, hoping somebody notices I am hungry. It is learning how to sit down at the table of my own life, feed myself, and realize my name had been on the place card the whole time.

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Crown Commandment

• May you stop treating other people’s approval like the meal that keeps you alive.

  
  

• May love, affirmation, and validation feel good when they come—but may their absence no longer take you away from yourself.

  
  

• May you sit at the table of your own life without waiting for anybody else to decide whether you belong there.

  
  

• And may you learn to give yourself the approval you spent so many years trying to earn.