Who’s Afraid of Little Red Riding Good?
I didn’t realize I was being a “good” patient.
I thought I was just being polite.
Polite felt like maturity. Like emotional intelligence. Like knowing how to move through adult spaces without friction. I wore it the way I wore competence. Quietly, proudly, like proof I belonged.
I softened my messages. Added context. Reassured. Apologized for asking questions I was absolutely allowed to ask. I adjusted my tone before anyone could misunderstand me. I told myself this was kindness.
It took me a long time to notice how automatic it was.
People-pleasing has a way of disguising itself as virtue. For years, it felt like a badge of honor. I was easy. Adaptable. Low-maintenance. I didn’t need much. I could read a room and adjust myself accordingly.
Or at least that’s how it looked. Inside, I was kind of screaming and actually needed quite a bit.
There’s a subtle reward system in that. Approval. Smooth interactions. Fewer raised eyebrows. Less tension.
It can feel almost addictive, like if you calibrate yourself correctly, everything will stay calm.
Healthcare became another place where that instinct showed up without asking my permission.
I didn’t walk into exam rooms as myself. I walked in already managing the dynamic. Anticipating tone. Editing my questions. Preparing to be agreeable before anyone had spoken.
I treated doctors like they might have god complexes before I ever met them. Not because they had shown me anything, but because I had learned it was safer to defer than to disrupt. Safer to behave well than to risk being labeled difficult.
So I asked questions carefully. Sparingly. With disclaimers.
I made sure they knew I respected their time. Their expertise. Their workload. I wanted to be seen as informed, but not threatening. Engaged, but not demanding.
I didn’t think of this as fear.
I thought of it as understanding the environment.
Because environments teach you things. Quietly. Repeatedly.
They teach you who is allowed to ask.
Who should wait.
Who gets clarity. Who should be grateful for whatever arrives.
Somewhere along the way, I learned how to behave in professional systems: be pleasant, be prepared, don’t challenge too directly, don’t ask the same question twice.
Especially if you already “know better.”
Especially if you’re articulate. Capable. Experienced.
The expectation becomes unspoken but heavy: you should know how this works.
So I behaved.
I didn’t notice how much energy it took to keep that posture. How often I managed tone instead of advocating for outcomes. How frequently I protected other people from my needs.
Until one small moment cracked it open.
I was drafting another follow-up message, another carefully worded nudge into silence when I realized I was reassuring someone else that I wasn’t upset.
Even though I was.
Not angry. Just unsettled. Still waiting. Still unclear.
I had written around my need instead of naming it.
That’s when it landed: this wasn’t just politeness.
It was people-pleasing.
And worse…it wasn’t helping anyone.
I’ve done this before.
Years earlier, with endometriosis, I learned how to narrate pain in a way that sounded reasonable. Palatable. I learned to preface symptoms with apologies. To laugh a little. To soften what my body was doing so it didn’t sound dramatic.
I remember sitting in an exam room explaining something that had become routine for me but clearly sounded inconvenient to say out loud. I remember backtracking mid-sentence. Saying, “It’s probably nothing.” Saying, “I might just be overthinking it.”
I said it before anyone else could.
And when it got worse, when it became undeniable, I didn’t feel validated. I felt angry with myself. Not for being wrong, but for knowing something was wrong and still talking myself out of it.
That’s the quiet damage of being the “good” patient.
Clarity delayed doesn’t magically become clarity. Needs that stay hidden don’t resolve themselves. Silence doesn’t make systems work better, it just makes the burden invisible.
Being “good” felt safe.
But safety came at a cost.
Delay.
Confusion.
The slow erosion of self-trust.
Did I do this wrong? Should I wait longer? Should I soften this more?
I started to see how often I was carrying responsibility that wasn’t mine. How much emotional labor I volunteered in spaces where I was already vulnerable.
Because it’s harder to take up space when your body is already asking for attention. When you’re waiting for answers. When you don’t feel steady.
People-pleasing thrives in vulnerability. It promises control. If you’re good enough, kind enough, patient enough, things will work out.
Until they don’t.
The shift didn’t come from confrontation or resolve. It came quietly.
I sent a message without cushioning it.
No apology.
No extra context.
No reassurance folded around a reasonable question.
Just the question.
Then I sat with the discomfort.
I noticed how exposed that felt. How quickly my instinct was to smooth it over. To manage how I might be perceived.
I didn’t.
Nothing dramatic happened. No reprimand. No rupture.
But something inside me steadied.
I saw how often I had mistaken self-erasure for grace. How deeply I had equated being agreeable with being worthy of care.
I’m still unlearning that.
I still feel the pull to apologize for existing inside systems meant to serve me. Still catch myself shaping myself around other people’s comfort.
But now I notice it.
Now, before I soften myself, I pause and ask: Am I being kind or am I being afraid?
Sometimes it’s kindness.
Sometimes it’s habit.
This isn’t about becoming demanding or hard-edged. It’s not about treating doctors and clinicians like adversaries or abandoning empathy.
It’s about remembering that my needs don’t become unreasonable when I state them clearly.
That respect doesn’t require silence.
That being “good” isn’t the same thing as being honest.
And that maybe, just maybe, the version of me who asks without apology isn’t difficult at all.
I’m simply done disappearing.
