My need to please people

Hi I’m Catherine and I’m a people pleaser. You could also interpenetrate that as code for lick arse but read this first and see what I have to say.

I’ve always been this way. I like making people happy.  Since I was young I’ve hated doing anything that would upset someone or make them slightly unhappy with me. And if I say something to hurt someone (because sometimes I’m stupid and my filter doesn’t work) I beat myself up and all the hurt I’ve inflicted on them I feel too ( I guess that also makes me empathetic).

I was was that annoying kid in school who agreed with everything you said. Oh you like that song? I do too! I never noticed it till someone pointed it out to me and like most habits, you don’t recognise you have them until someone makes you aware of it. I’m grateful for this person doing this even though at the time it made me acutely self aware of myself. Though this self awareness helped me more conscious that I should form my own opinions on things, I was still a huge people pleaser.

Always being ready to please people caused me to agree easily and not tread on people’s toes.  I just wanted to be liked. As you get older you realise you’re not going to make everyone happy. I’m not going to say that I still don’t strive to make others happy,  but I’ve gotten better at not making it my priority.

I’ve also gotten a lot better at not always agreeing with others. If anything I enjoy when people have different opinions to me, because it opens up the opportunity of a having a discussion. This can make for extremely interesting conversations.

I think it all comes down to finding the balance of makes others happy but not allowing your own thoughts and feelings to be jeopardised.

Do you struggle with feeling the need to please people?

An Anti-New Years

New Years has never been my favourite time of year, actually to be honest with you I hate it. Streets are rowdy and crowded, making plans with people is an impossible task and the whole concept is a hype; that hit midnight we need to cheer and celebrate new beginnings when really it’s just the start of another day (jeez I’m a bundle of positivity energy).

As you can see myself and New Years Eve don’t see eye to eye, so this year I wanted to celebrate it my own way. I headed to Dublin and myself and my friend had what I christened (much to her dismay and embarrassment as I shouted the name out with joy when I thought of it) AN ANTI-NEW YEARS!

  • Rule one of Anti-New Years: you do not talk about new years.

Evening time myself and my friend headed into town towards the Grand Canal, the area was like a ghost town as every place was closing at half four. But we managed to get a coffee (and were given free sourdough baguettes!). Bread in my handbag we walked into town on the search for a good burger. Bunsen was surprisingly closed so we walked to Workmans where we heard they sold burgers upstairs, we weren’t wrong and we both sat down with a Wow Burger ( the name of the burger shack but also the burgers were fab) and a pint of cider. It was heaven.

We then watched a football match in a nearby bar…. I think it was Man City and Liverpool playing? I can’t remember to be honest, I only agreed to go along so I could treat myself to a cocktail (It was a very pretty Raspberry Margarita in case you’re curious).

For the night we settled down with takeaway and wine and watched a movie on the couch. Outside I could hear the rain pelting down and a phone call with my mom before midnight told me the weather was the exact same back home.

A few minutes before twelve we switched over the channel to the London countdown to watch the fireworks. The crowds counted down (10…9….8), the rain wasn’t stopping anytime soon (7…6….5), I was wrapped up in my friend’s huge blanket and nursing a food baby (4…3…2), and for the first time ever I had a great New Years Eve spent exactly how I wanted to spend it (1…HAPPY NEW YEAR…BOOM BOOM FIREWORKS EVERYWHERE).

And then we headed to bed.




Why I hate camping

Welcome back to my blog!

Today I’m going to tell you why I hate camping.

As it’s now summer,  I won’t see my college friends as much as I did during the year, in an effort to all stay in touch we were debating what adventure we could get up together during the three months. Lauren (or was it Nataile?) suggested camping. This was met with a prompt hysteria of ‘NO’ from myself and David  (

I’m not sure what was his reason behind turning down the idea of camping, but personally I hate it.

It sounds like a nice idea. Roasting marshmallows by the fire, sitting on logs wrapped up in big blankets, talking till the late hours. Then conveniently someone will pull out a guitar and play a rendition of Wonderwall, while you all will eventually lie down and gaze at the stars and drift away into a deep sleep to the sounds of crickets and nature. Now let me tell you what camping is really like, from my one experience.

I was sixteen and I was in France as part as an exchange programme. The French girl from the family I was staying with was planning on going camping with all her French friends, and she kindly invited me along. I was finding the exchange hard. When I first meet people I’m usually quieter than my normal self, but I found this experience ten times more difficult because my French wasn’t the best and communicating with others became a real struggle of awkward hand gestures and broken French. It got to the point where I became extremely introverted which is unusual for me.

Her house was on a farm so tents and a camp fire was set up in one of the fields in the back of her house. Hay bales lined the field and when her friends arrived they all began jumping from one hay bale to the other. Sounds fun? Not when you’re me and you have the movement and coordination of a clumsy penguin. By the time I managed (with much struggling) to pull myself on top of the hay bale, everyone had given up on that game. I also then remembered that I have a fear of heights, so I began the struggle once more of trying to get myself down off the hay bale.

Next was the camp-fire. We began playing this game called Les Loupes (I’m pretty sure it was called that anyway). As I mentioned before my French wasn’t the best, and though I insisted that I didn’t have to take part in the game, they wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t 100% understand the rules and I became that person who didn’t know how to play properly and ended up ruining the entire game for everyone… oh the joys!

Also as we’re on the subject of camp fires. How can they be considered to be enjoyable? The wind was strong that night and I spent the entire time with smoke billowing in my face, it was like an extreme experience of being at the smoking area of a nightclub but worse.

Finally onto the actual concept of sleeping. After finally everyone accepting the fact that it was time to sleep, though I thought it was long overdue, we all departed into our designated tents. Now this part of the story is my own fault. I never slept in a sleeping bag before and it was extremely late and after much delusional confusion, I lay the sleeping bag over me as if it was a duvet. I now realise my own foolishness… it’s called sleeping IN a sleeping bag because you sleep IN it *an eternity of face palms*

I woke up a few hours later freezing, thinking my toes were going to fall off from the cold. After eventually falling back to sleep I woke up much later on, midday in a sweltering tent. At that point I just wanted  my bed. But no siree, somehow a plan was formed by everyone to go down to the river, since I didn’t understand what was being said, I started trekking with everyone through fields wondering why I wasn’t in bed asleep. I also get really bad hay fever (surprise surprise) so by the time we got to the river, my eyes were streaming. I didn’t know how to say hayfever in French, so I tried to distance myself from the group so they wouldn’t see the mess I had become. When the French ones started jumping in the river for a swim I finally realised why we were there. I can’t swim (I’ll give you a minute to get over the shock) and at this point the whole camping ordeal seemed like one cruel joke after another. With that I turned to the nearest person next to me, and gave my excuses (“moi…aller… le chateua, oui”)

I headed back to the house, swallowed a packet of hay fever tablets, and collapsed into bed.

My conclusion of the whole experience is that I am just not humanly adapt to camping. My intention is to never go camping again (unless it involves luxury tents with heated beds and a controlled fire.) But I’m sure I’m not the only one that hates camping right?

If you want to make me feel better, let me know in the comments if you hate camping just as much as me!

Or if you think you can convince me that camping is actually great fun, try and convince me (good luck).