THE PERFORMANCE OF BEING LIKED…
It’s a strange thing to be hyper-aware of how you’re being perceived.
It’s like having a mirror in every room not just one that shows your reflection, but one that reflects the thoughts and feelings of everyone around you.
I can walk into a room and almost instantly feel the atmosphere, see the micro-expressions, sense the emotional temperature. I know who’s interested, who’s disengaged, who’s bored. And without even deciding to, I start performing.
It’s not always big and obvious, it can be subtle. A story shaped to make someone laugh. A shift in tone to keep them comfortable. Asking a question I know will make them feel seen. But underneath it all, there’s a deep wiring: if they feel good, I’m safe.
And here’s where the Enneagram lens comes in:
For Type Twos, this looks like people-pleasing as survival. The compulsion to make others feel cared for, so they’ll keep you close. The subtle belief: If I’m not warm, helpful, or attuned, they’ll forget me.
For Type Threes, this can shift into performance. Adapting your image to what the room wants to see, playing the part that gets you admired, respected, or praised. The belief: If I don’t impress, I’ll be invisible.
The danger is, it works.
I’ve built trust quickly in my career. I’ve been known as the fun one in friendship groups. I’ve been praised for my warmth, my energy, my ability to “bring the room alive.” But what people don’t always see is the quiet cost: the moments where I want to just sit in stillness, say nothing, and still be chosen.
Sometimes, I catch myself mid-conversation wanting to retreat, to stop scanning for signs of disconnection and just be in my own skin. And it’s hard. Because hyper-awareness doesn’t have an off switch. The same skill that helps me create safe spaces for others also keeps me performing, even when I don’t want to.
That’s the inner conflict for Twos and Threes: the gift of reading a room can just as easily become the burden of never leaving the stage.
Breaking the pattern isn’t about killing the part of me that can read people. That’s a gift. It’s about letting that gift be a choice, not a compulsion. It’s about finding moments where I let the silence breathe, even if it feels awkward. It’s about trusting that the people who matter will still choose me when I’m still.
Because slowly, I’m learning that the real measure of connection isn’t how well I perform.
It’s how safely I can stop performing.