The first time I saw Colin, he was up to his knees in the icy waters of Sand Beach, arms outstretched like some kind of New England deity commanding the waves. We were fifteen, and I fell for him fast—fast like the way the tide pulls you under before you even realize your feet have left the sand. I didn’t know then that we’d date for years, nor did I know how much of myself I’d lose along the way. I just knew he smelled like sunblock, saltwater, and promises I hoped he would keep.

Fast forward a decade later—same rocky Bar Harbor shores but a drastically different me. I had just fought—and finally won—a battle I kept private for far too long. This is the story of that fight: my relentless war against becoming a people-pleaser in relationships.

The Invisible Tug-of-War: How It All Begins

When you grow up in a place where the Atlantic is constantly smoothing the edges of sharp granite, it’s easy to internalize the lesson of accommodation. Bend, adapt, yield. That mentality crept into my relationships, starting perhaps with Colin and stretching well beyond him. I wasn’t accommodating just to be kind—I was doing it because I thought compromising myself was the price of love. Call it Bar Harbor Girl Syndrome: like driftwood, I became smoother, lighter, easier to carry, but only because I was letting the tide erode pieces of me.

If you’ve ever been there, you know the pattern. They pick the restaurant? Sure. They choose the movie? No problem. They joke about a quirk of yours—something you secretly love about yourself—and you laugh along like it’s nothing. Inside, though? It grates. You tell yourself you’re chill, cool, the human equivalent of a seaside breeze. But really, you’re giving up small but precious pieces of your identity, one easy "yes" at a time.

For me, that invisible erosion went on for years. At first, I called it compromise. Later, I knew it for what it was: slowly disappearing.

Flirting with Disaster: When Pleasing Becomes a Problem

It hit me hardest one winter evening when Nick (the post-Colin guy) looked up from his phone, grinning. “I was telling Greg you’d help set up his retirement party—you’re so good at that kind of thing. You don’t mind, right?”

Reader, I minded. My weekends were slammed with deadlines, I saw Greg maybe once a year, and I didn’t even LIKE planning parties unless we were talking outdoor potlucks with wildflowers and s’mores. But what did I say?

“Oh, of course!”

The words left my mouth before I could catch them, like a minnow slipping through open fingers. Later that evening, as I spent hours combing Pinterest for rustic-chic decoration ideas that Greg himself would never notice, I realized something fundamental: I hated the version of myself I had become in relationships. The Abby who always gave, never pushed back, and walked on metaphorical eggshells trying to maintain the comfort of others—she wasn’t me. She was some self-selected intern to boyfriends who didn’t even realize I was volunteering for the role.

Building a Bonfire: Reclaiming Yourself in Small Steps

Confronting this didn’t happen in one dramatic tidal wave—it was more like slowly turning the wheel to steer a kayak through foggy water. Here’s what I discovered in the process, in case you’re also feeling lost between who you are and who you’re pretending to be:

1. Practice Saying No—Even to Easy Things

The first time it happened, it was almost laughable. Nick asked if I could grab takeout from his favorite spot, and a completely new instinct kicked in. “No. I’m really tired. Could you?” I said it so simply, so firmly, and was met with… nothing dramatic at all. He wasn’t mad. The earth didn’t implode. In fact, he said, “Yeah, okay,” and grabbed his keys.

This was revelatory, like the time I discovered you can say you’re “not in the mood for lobster” around here and people won’t exile you from coastal Maine. The lesson? Boundaries don’t have to feel like brick walls. Sometimes they’re as simple as saying, “Not tonight.”

2. Revisit What Makes You Light Up

For years, I’d let my hobbies drift like buoys no longer anchored. I stopped writing poetry, ditched my sunrise hikes, let my shell collection gather dust. Reclaiming independence in relationships meant returning to these touchstones of joy. What did I genuinely love?

Hiking solo again after years of always bringing a partner felt like slipping on an old, perfectly broken-in pair of boots. The trail didn’t ask me for anything, not even conversation. That solitude reminded me I wasn’t just there to share someone else’s world—I had my own.

3. Rewrite the Narrative

I used to think relationships were about earning love, as though every “yes” was a stepping stone leading closer to partnership security. But here’s what I learned by fighting that belief: real love doesn’t demand constant self-sacrifice. It makes room for who you are, jagged edges and all.

I put this theory to the test recently. My current partner asked, semi-jokingly, if I wanted to spend Valentine’s freezing my butt off on a lobster boat (he’s a fisherman, bless him). And instead of a fake enthusiastic “sounds fun,” I laughed and said, "Absolutely NOT, but I’ll make you hot cocoa when you’re done.” He laughed, too—and you know what? He didn’t get hurt or defensive. What he appreciated was the honesty.

4. Celebrate the Small Wins

Acknowledging the progress might seem silly, but it’s key. Each small shift was a win: saying no, voicing preferences, running unapologetically back toward the things that made me me.

And listen, there’s something magical about standing tall in your truth. When you’re no longer crumpling under the weight of pleasing everyone else, you find that people respect you more—and you respect yourself more, too.

A Love Story Worth Fighting For

Getting myself back was messy, and sometimes lonely. I’m not going to sugarcoat it—it’s hard to start stepping up for yourself when part of you still craves validation, approval, or even just the illusion of smooth waters. But today, I’m proud of the woman I’ve become. The me that isn’t afraid of conflict, that knows the worth of her time, and that can say honestly: I love you, but I won’t shrink myself to fit your world.

If you’re still figuring this out for yourself, remember this: being true to who you are isn’t selfish—it’s foundational. Authenticity doesn’t just enhance relationships; it’s what makes them real. So stand firm. Be a boulder, not driftwood. Let the tide come and go. You—and the right people—will stay rooted, stronger for it.