How Nice Is Too Nice?

Of all the compliments I’ve received over the course of my days here on earth, the adjective, nice, is one I wore like a badge of honor. It was bestowed upon me as a title far too many times to count on my fingers, and was always offered with admiration and awe. “You’re so nice!” the exclamation would come, sometimes followed by, “I could never be like you.”

Slowly and meticulously, I began to etch that word into every fiber of my being. I unintentionally hardwired this compliment into my thoughts, so that every action I took thereafter had to align with this image—or else I felt an internal dissonance. It felt rude. It felt selfish. How could I let down a world that had decided I was nice?

Up until my teen years, I genuinely enjoyed life. I vividly remember being excited for Mondays, when school friendships felt solid and anchoring. I was popular, outspoken, and looked up to among my friends. I spoke my mind when I felt the need to. Though I remained quiet and reserved at home and in class, I felt a familial closeness with my peers.

Everything shifted when I attended a high school far from home, knowing no one. In hindsight, that’s when my niceness spiraled. I began saying yes to every request just to make friends—just to belong. As an introvert, I couldn’t simply approach someone to become friends. Instead, I tried to earn my place by doing homework for others, helping, teaching, agreeing—saying yes whenever I was asked.

To be clear, nice in this context does not mean kind. Nice, to me now, means too much of everything. Too helpful. Too polite. Too gullible. Too accepting. Too silent.

The degree to how nice I was snowballed as I rolled down the hill of life, transpiring to all corners of my life. With maturity came a sense of obligation. I felt unable to let anyone down. It didn’t matter if they were family or a stranger—I felt their pain, cried with them, and wanted to fix things immediately. Even if it meant hurting myself.

Fast forward to now, and I feel I’ve finally stopped rolling. I’m a little bruised, but grateful for the clarity I have in this moment. In recent months, an epiphany has quietly taken hold: I’m beginning to think that being too nice actually irritates people. Not just loved ones, but even those who don’t have my best interests at heart.

I sense frustration from family when I offer help—often followed by gentle lectures urging me to focus on myself. I imagine it comes from care, from not wanting old patterns to repeat. I’ve been vocal about feeling taken advantage of for most of my life, and perhaps it pains them to witness it. But I notice it elsewhere too. I offer help and am met with an immediate, “No, I’ll do it myself.” I say thank you one too many times and I’m left on read. It feels to me as though I’m suffocating others with my niceness.

I sometimes wonder if this is simply a sign of the times—if overextending oneself has fallen out of fashion. Maybe it’s become such a rare behavior that people don’t know how to receive it anymore, and so they shut down. I’d like to believe that’s not entirely true, that pockets of compassion still exist in the world.

But I think the reason runs deeper. I feel that the excessive politeness I’ve hardwired into my soul creates discomfort for others. And that makes sense. From an evolutionary standpoint, it wouldn’t have been beneficial for survival. How would our ancestors have endured if they stopped to help every stranger they encountered while hunting and gathering? Humans, perhaps, were never meant to be endlessly nice.

It will take time—and real determination—to reprogram myself. This is a work in progress. I catch myself slipping back into old patterns, then gently pull myself forward again. It’s exhausting to constantly remind yourself not to be too nice when it once felt like the safest way to exist.

But I’ve given myself permission now—to exist without apology.
And maybe that’s exactly what my body needs to begin the change.