Don’t Set Yourself on Fire to Keep Other People Warm

Written by Niall Davison

Don’t Set Yourself on Fire to Keep Other People WarmWho are you people pleasing, and why?

For years, I swore I wasn’t a people pleaser because I operated under the assumption that most people are dicks. That was my get-out clause. My shield. My convenient little story.

But after reading Natalie Lue’s book The Joy of Saying No: A Simple Plan to Stop People Pleasing, Reclaim Boundaries, and Say Yes to the Life You Want — November’s choice for the Alcohol Uncensored book club — I’ve had to challenge that assumption.

According to Lue, there are five types of people pleaser.
Which one are you?

1) Gooders

These are the “I’ll be the reliable one” people. They please others by being good, well-behaved, agreeable, morally upstanding, and endlessly accommodating. Their value comes from being seen as nice, kind, or “the good one.”

2) Efforters

Efforters try to earn approval through hard work. They go above and beyond, constantly over-delivering, over-preparing, researching, organising, and putting in more than their share. Their identity is tied to proving their worth.

3) Avoiders

Avoiders keep the peace by not rocking the boat. They hide their needs, mute opinions, swallow discomfort, and stay quiet to dodge conflict or rejection. Their motto is essentially: “If I say nothing, nothing bad happens.”

4) Savers

Savers please by fixing, rescuing, and supporting others. They jump in to help, nurture, and solve everyone else’s problems—whether they’re asked to or not. Their sense of purpose comes from being needed.

5) Sufferers

Sufferers please through martyrdom. They give, sacrifice, and endure silently, often resentfully, expecting others to notice their pain and reward them with appreciation or reciprocal care. Their pain becomes currency for belonging.

I was happily flicking through the book thinking, Gooders, Efforters – look at these dicks…
then I got to Avoiders.

Oh fuck.

That’s me.

Turns out I am a people pleaser after all 🤦‍♂️

Avoider traits:

They choose comfort now over honesty later—even if it creates bigger problems down the line.

They fear that expressing needs will burden others or make them unlikeable.

They apologise reflexively to smooth things over, even when they’re not at fault.

They downplay their own feelings and convince themselves “it’s not a big deal.”

They struggle to set boundaries until they’re at breaking point—then explode or withdraw completely.

They often feel misunderstood because they assume others should “just know” how they feel.

They see themselves as easy-going, but deep down feel resentful, unheard, or invisible.

They mistake silence for maturity, when often it’s fear masking as calm.

Tick, tick, tickity tick. That’s me. Full-blown Avoider. Always have been. Hopefully not forever — I’m in recovery from emotional constipation. You’d need to ask the Mrs how it’s going.

During my initial 100 day no alcohol challenge, I caved on day 42. My wife and I were going away for her birthday weekend, so I told myself the convenient lie that she would have a better time if I was drinking, even though she’s always said, ‘you’re a bit of a knob when you’re drunk.’

I didn’t want to drink, but I didn’t have the balls to have the difficult conversation with her, so I avoided it completely by slipping back into my old ways – I had a drink. It was the easiest way out; it’s what I do.

I even framed the whole weekend as “a test.”

You know on Love Island when a lad has been going steady with a girl for five weeks, promises he’s “exclusive” and that his head won’t be turned… then they send him to Casa Amor and he proceeds to snog all six new girls “to test how strong the relationship is”? Yeah. One of those tests.

For the record—I don’t watch Love Island, obviously 🤥

So I took one for the team and had seven drinks that weekend. Jokes aside, I genuinely treated it as a test. I paid attention to every sip — how it made me feel, how quickly the “buzz” turned into nothing special, and how badly it wrecked my sleep.

By the end of the weekend, it only confirmed what I already knew: I was done.
That was the summer of 2023, and I haven’t touched a drop since.

Two months later we were set to go on holiday, and once again I couldn’t bring myself to tell my wife I didn’t want to drink. My emotional constipation kicked in, so I did what any avoider does: I wrote her a five-page letter explaining how much alcohol was affecting me and that I didn’t want to drink on holiday.

Her response was typical:

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

She was absolutely fine about it. Supportive, even. But I’d built up the conversation so much in my head that I convinced myself avoiding it was easier than saying it out loud.

Similarly, after my initial four-month abstinence from gambling, I started getting sycophantic WhatsApp screenshots from my old horse-racing tipping page on Facebook. A week before Cheltenham, the lads were calling for my return. Over the years they’d given me the fawning nickname The King of Cheltenham. And truth be told, I fucking loved the adulation.

But I was in a much better place without gambling.

Once again, I caved. I returned for Cheltenham like I’d never left and wrote daily previews. It was a winning week financially, but I berated myself for sliding back into old habits. I told myself the lads needed me — their hero riding in on his white horse to save the day.

Of course, that was bollocks.

It wasn’t about them. It was easier to slip back into my old identity than to say:

“I’m out of the game.”

Avoiders don’t protect relationships.
They protect discomfort.

People pleasers don’t say yes because it’s generous. They say yes because it’s easier than dealing with the guilt, conflict, or awkwardness that might follow a no.

We all think we’re people pleasing because we’re just good people who like to help others, but there’s often a more solipsistic, even narcissistic thread running underneath it. We’re not protecting relationships—we’re protecting ourselves from discomfort, rejection, or replaying old wounds. So we reach for the same tired coping strategies we’ve always used, slapping on familiar plasters rather than actually healing.

But constant self-sacrifice doesn’t make you compassionate; it just makes you depleted. You end up over-committed, under-resented, quietly exhausted, and still telling yourself you did the “right” thing—when really, you just avoided the uncomfortable thing.

Just say I pick two lads up on the way to work every morning — let’s call them Colin and Michael. I’ve done it for two years. They rely on me showing up, not calling in sick, not changing plans. One day, I hear a rattle in my car. I know I should get it checked out, but the car is still driving — plus Colin and Michael need me.

As the week goes on, the rattle gets louder. Still, I don’t get it looked at. The following week, smoke starts rising from the bonnet. The thing is literally dying under me, but the car is still technically drivable… and Colin and Michael would have no way in if I left it in for repair.

What’s really going on here?
I’m using Colin and Michael as a shield. The truth is I don’t want to face the possibility that my car might be fucked. Leaving it in the shop will be inconvenient. It might cost money. Worst case, I might need a new car. That reality is uncomfortable — so instead of dealing with it, I hide behind the easy, noble-sounding excuse: I’m just a good guy who doesn’t want to let anyone down.

But deep down I know I’m heading for a full breakdown if I don’t get the thing checked.

Back in the real world, if your body or mind are giving off rattles — if every Monday morning you’re wiped out from a weekend binge, or you’ve blown your wages on stupid bets — ignoring the warning signs is never the wise move. Rattles don’t fix themselves. They get louder. Then they smoke. Then they break.

People pleasers tell themselves they’re sacrificing for others, but most of the time they’re just avoiding discomfort. Outsourcing blame is easy. Growth is harder. It starts by looking in the mirror and admitting: This needs to change — and I’m the only one who can change it.

Because here’s the truth: at the end of the day, we’re responsible for looking after number one. That’s why the old line hits so hard: don’t set yourself on fire to keep other people warm. If the cost of keeping the peace is burning yourself to ash, it’s not kindness—it’s self-harm dressed up as generosity.