I Was Addicted to Being Chosen

Hey, I’m Lux, and this is Lux Unfiltered—where we talk about the messy, brilliant, infuriating parts of growing, healing, and being a human who refuses to pretend they’re not. If you’ve ever found yourself asking, “Was that really kind… or was I just being managed?” — this episode’s for you. Please also tune in Monday, Wednesday and Friday for our This or That sessions on our instagram stories. It’s insane but its super fun. Also, remember thats as a newsletter follower, you get 20% off with code SUBSTACK.

Because today we’re talking about kindness.

More specifically—fake kindness.

Manipulative kindness.

Performative kindness.

The kind that leaves you feeling confused, indebted, and a little bit hollow.

If you’re someone who grew up with conditional love, or you’ve had a few too many friendship breakups that left you spiralling, or you’ve ever been that “helpful” person who’s starting to realise oh… I was performing, then buckle up. Because we’re about to get very real.

Let’s start at the root.

Growing up under the control of a narcissist, kindness was never just kindness. It was a trap.

A shiny, glittery, perfectly timed trap.

A well-placed compliment here. A thoughtful gift there. Praise just when I needed to feel seen the most—but never too much, never too consistent. Just enough to keep me hungry. Just enough to keep me working. Just enough to keep me hoping that maybe this time… they really meant it.

But they didn’t.

It wasn’t about me. It was never about me.

It was about control. About keeping me in line. About maintaining their image. About keeping me dependent.

And the wild thing is—I didn’t even clock it as manipulation for the longest time.

Because that was just how kindness looked in my world.

Kindness meant you owed something.

Kindness came with strings.

Kindness was a performance with a purpose.

So I became suspicious of it. Even when someone was being genuine, I’d get my back up. I’d look for the catch. I’d wonder what the price would be this time. And worse—I started copying it.

Because if that’s the only kind of kindness you’ve ever known, how do you know what’s real?

Here’s where it gets murky:

I wasn’t just a victim of manufactured kindness. I was a perpetrator of it too.

Not in a moustache-twirling villain way. In a trauma-soaked, approval-hungry, please-pick-me kind of way.

I genuinely saw myself as the generous friend. The reliable one. The helper. The one who would go above and beyond—who loved going above and beyond.

But under all that helpfulness? Was a deep, desperate need to be chosen. To be useful.

Because I thought usefulness was love.

I created these codependent dynamics, built entire roles for myself in people’s lives. I’d be their fixer, their advisor, their emotional support team, their project manager, their career coach. I’d give and give and give and call it kindness. And then I’d spiral when they didn’t choose me. When they dropped me. When they stopped performing back.

And I’d be like, How could they? After everything I did for them?

But the real question was, Why did I feel I had to do all that in the first place?

I didn’t want reciprocity. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted to feel essential. I wanted to earn my place.

That’s not real kindness. That’s not generosity.

That’s fear in a nice outfit.

And when I say I’ve had to unlearn this? I mean burn it to the ground and start again.

Because when you’ve been trained to believe love has to be earned, it’s hard to accept it freely.

It’s hard to not offer something back right away.

It’s hard to just sit in being loved without panicking that it’s going to cost you later.

I remember the first time I experienced true, no-strings-attached kindness. And it didn’t come from some big, romantic moment. It came from my neighbours. Just being kind. Not for clout. Not because they needed me. Not because they saw me as an asset. Just… kindness.

They liked me. As I was. Unmasked. Not curated. Not useful. Just me.

And my first instinct? I tried to offer something. I tried to prove I was worth that kindness. I offered help, favours, something to even the score. I couldn’t believe someone would just give to me without expecting anything in return.

It broke my brain a little.

But it also gave me something to rebuild from.

And it’s mad, right? Because once you realise how deep that conditioning goes, you start to see it everywhere. Every time I caught myself doing something “nice,” I had to ask—was this for them, or was it for me?

Sometimes, I’d drop everything to help someone, not because they asked me to, but because I needed to feel valuable. I needed to feel chosen. Like, if I just did this one more thing, they’d never leave.

Spoiler: they still did. Because you can’t make people stay by performing. You can’t build a real connection on obligation. And as painful as that was to learn, it also set me free.

Because here’s the part I didn’t expect—once I stopped trying so hard to be useful, once I stopped showing up with my little emotional résumé like “here’s all the reasons I’m worth your love,” the right people… stayed. Not out of obligation. Just because they wanted to.

And the ones who didn’t? That stopped hurting in the same way.

Because now, when someone leaves, I don’t make it mean I wasn’t good enough. I make it mean we weren’t a match.

That’s it. No extra narrative required.

But to get to that place, I had to call myself out. Hard.

There was a point—around the time of my last big friendship breakup—where I had to sit in the discomfort of realising I had been a part of the problem. Not the problem. But a part of it.

I wasn’t just the one getting dropped. I was showing up in ways that made connection conditional.

I wasn’t fully honest about what I needed. I wasn’t giving people space to disappoint me.

I was trying to love them into becoming who they said they wanted to be instead of just seeing who they actually were.

And listen, that’s not always coming from a manipulative place.

Sometimes it’s coming from that deeply autistic, deeply ADHD, deeply romantic part of you that just wants it to work.

That wants the fairytale. That wants the best in people. That sees potential and wants to help build it.

But that’s not love. That’s project management.

And you’re not here to be anyone’s unpaid intern in their own life.

The way I used to latch onto people? It wasn’t just about connection. It was about identity. I thought if I could help someone become their best self, then I must be good too. I’d feel needed. Valuable. Chosen.

But what I didn’t realise is that I wasn’t falling for them—I was falling for who they said they wanted to be.

I befriended the potential.

I dated the ambition.

I ignored the reality.

And then I got heartbroken when reality inevitably didn’t live up to the ideal.

And look, not everyone wants to become the version of themselves they talk about.

Not everyone can.

Not everyone should.

But I didn’t see that back then. I was so busy offering tools, advice, support, encouragement.

Because I had them. I had the experience. I’d been in therapy. I had the language.

So I’d over-function for the both of us.

And then, of course, they’d burn out or disappear or get defensive or resentful—because no one likes to be “fixed.” Especially when they didn’t ask for it.

And I’d be left gutted.

Like, but I was just trying to help.

And yeah. I was. But it wasn’t selfless.

It was self-protective.

It was me trying to make myself indispensable so they wouldn’t leave.

But the truth is: people will leave anyway.

You can give them everything, and they’ll still walk. You can love them at their worst, show up consistently, bend over backwards, and they’ll still choose distance.

And when you finally realise that—you also realise something else:

You don’t have to perform anymore.

You don’t have to earn love.

You just have to be.

And let me be honest—being? Just being?

It’s so much harder than performing.

Because performing gives you a sense of control. You think you can curate the version of yourself that’s lovable. You think you can earn your way into someone’s life.

But being?

Being means trusting that who you are is enough, even when you’re not useful. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re not “on.”

And that’s where the real kindness comes in.

Because real kindness holds space for the whole version of you.

It doesn’t need you to be impressive.

It doesn’t collapse when you’re not at your best.

It doesn’t guilt you, or control you, or play mind games to keep you around.

Real kindness is patient.

Real kindness is spacious.

Real kindness says, you don’t owe me anything.

And when you grow up without that? It’s jarring as hell.

Like I said, my neighbours were the first people in my adult life who gave me that.

They didn’t ask me to shrink or perform or show up in any particular way. They liked me as I was. With my brain fog. With my weird schedule. With my over-apologising and awkwardness. With the mess. With the realness.

And at first, I didn’t believe it. I kept trying to offer something in return. “Let me help with this.” “Let me bring that.” “Let me earn this space you’ve made for me.”

But they didn’t ask for anything.

And over time, I learned to stop offering just to keep the peace.

I learned to sit in their kindness and let it land.

And that changed me.

Because when you experience real, unconditional kindness—it rewires something in your brain.

Suddenly, the manipulative stuff doesn’t hit the same.

You start to see it clearly. You start to feel the difference.

You stop mistaking intensity for care.

You stop confusing being needed with being loved.

You stop chasing people who only want the curated version of you.

Because the people who want the real you?

They don’t need fixing.

They just want to sit with you.

And they’ll let you sit with them too.

And that’s the shift I didn’t expect: once I learned to sit with real kindness, I couldn’t stomach the fake kind anymore.

The overly generous friend who’s always doing the most—but somehow, you always leave the conversation feeling like you owe them something.

The person who love-bombs you with support when they want something from you—but disappears the second you stop being useful.

The person who plays the victim when you set a boundary, making your “no” feel like betrayal.

I used to ignore these red flags because I saw them as quirks.

Now I see them for what they are: rehearsed performances.

Conditional.

Calculated.

And honestly? Cowardly.

And I’ll admit—I’ve played those roles too. I’ve been the over-giver. I’ve made people feel indebted.

Not intentionally. But because I was stuck in the same script. I thought I had to buy my place in people’s lives. I thought kindness was a transaction.

So I started interrogating my own patterns.

Every time I wanted to offer help, I asked myself:

Am I doing this because I want to, or because I’m scared of not being chosen?

Every time someone did something kind for me, I noticed the impulse:

Do I immediately want to give something back so I don’t feel guilty for receiving?

Every time I felt abandoned or rejected, I sat with the fear:

Did I think this person would stay because I was useful, and now I’m angry they didn’t?

And it’s uncomfortable.

Like, rip-your-skin-off uncomfortable.

But it’s also liberating. Because once you start recognising the difference, you start reclaiming your nervous system.

Because let’s be real—most of us mistake familiar for safe.

And if you grew up with conditional love, manipulative kindness, or “do this or I’ll withdraw from you” energy…

Then that’s what your body registers as normal.

That hot, confusing, high-stakes dynamic. That’s what your nervous system recognises.

So when someone comes along with real kindness—quiet, steady, patient—you’re like,

“This is boring. This is cold. This is fake.”

But it’s not.

You’re just dysregulated.

You’re reacting to the absence of chaos like it’s danger.

Because your baseline has been chaos for so long.

So when my nervous system gets activated now, I don’t always assume it’s a red flag.

Sometimes it’s just… unfamiliar.

Sometimes I’m reacting to safety because I’ve only ever known survival.

And that’s the piece that took me the longest to get.

That sometimes, what feels boring is actually peace.

And sometimes, what feels familiar is actually dysfunction in a new outfit.

So now, when I feel that tight chest, that spiralling brain, that urge to do something to keep the connection—I pause.

I remind myself: “It is safe to receive. I do not have to earn this. I am lovable even when I’m still.”

I want to talk about something else that helped rewire that old conditioning:

Learning to accept compliments.

That sounds so small, right?

But it’s massive.

Especially when you’re socialised to be humble. When you’re taught to downplay everything about yourself. When confidence is seen as arrogance and receiving is seen as selfish.

I used to brush off compliments like they were lava.

“Oh no, it’s nothing.”

“Oh I just threw this together.”

“Oh you’re too kind.”

And then one day I just… stopped.

I decided to say thank you.

And then I started saying, “I know, right?”

Not as a joke. As a declaration.

You like my outfit? “I know, right? I felt so good in it.”

You love something I made? “Right? I put so much time into that—thank you for seeing it.”

You think I’m talented? “I’ve worked hard to be this good. I’m glad it shows.”

Because I do know.

I am proud.

And denying that isn’t modesty—it’s self-abandonment.

Now when someone compliments me, I let it land. I don’t scramble to repay it. I don’t shrink.

I let the words sink into my body and remind the younger version of me that it’s safe to be seen.

And that? That’s how I reparent myself.

That’s how I teach my inner child:

You don’t have to be impressive to be loved.

You don’t have to perform to be worthy.

You can just be.

And I repeat it, often:

“I am allowed to receive. It is safe for me to receive openly and freely.”

Some days I don’t believe it.

Some days I still try to give too much.

Some days I spiral and over-explain and over-apologise.

But then I catch it. I catch myself mid-people-pleasing. And I pause. I course correct.

And that’s the work.

Not being perfect.

Being aware.

One of the hardest pills to swallow in all this has been realising that I’ve given people roles in my life based on who they wanted to be, not who they actually were.

It sounds generous on the surface. “I believed in them.”

But it’s not fair. It’s not real. It’s projection.

It’s me falling in love with their potential, holding them to a version of themselves they hadn’t yet lived up to—and maybe never would.

It’s like expecting someone to act like a doctor because they talked about going to med school once.

You can’t build a relationship with someone’s resume of intentions.

You have to deal with what they bring to the table. Today. Right now.

And this is where so many of my friendship breakups came from.

I was pouring into people who didn’t have the capacity—or the desire—to pour back.

I was handing out tools, strategies, resources, encouragement like I was running a wellness bootcamp.

And then getting upset when they didn’t want to do the work.

But here’s the truth I had to face:

Not everyone wants to be better.

Not everyone can be better right now.

And not everyone asked for your help in the first place.

So now, when someone tells me who they are—I believe them.

When someone says they’re chaotic, I don’t assume they mean “quirky but functional.”

When someone says they hate drama, but drama follows them like a second shadow? I clock that.

I don’t try to rescue people from their own patterns anymore.

Because it’s not my job to save anyone.

It’s my job to show up honestly—and leave space for them to do the same.

And honestly, it’s such a relief.

I don’t want to be anyone’s emotional service provider. I want reciprocity. I want connection. I want slowness.

Because that’s what real kindness looks like. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. It’s not a big grand gesture posted online.

It’s someone showing up for you quietly, consistently, with no invoice attached.

It’s you showing up for yourself without needing to prove anything.

It’s a friendship that doesn’t collapse the second you stop performing.

And yeah, it took me way too long to learn that.

But now that I know? I can’t unknow it.

I can feel it in my body.

I can tell when someone’s kindness is a currency—and when it’s a gift.

And I’ve learned to stop feeling guilty for choosing the gift over the transaction.

I want to be really clear about something before we wrap this up:

Taking accountability for your part in a dynamic doesn’t mean excusing someone else’s shitty behaviour.

This is where nuance is everything.

There are people who absolutely manipulated me.

Who used me.

Who love-bombed me and ditched me the second I stopped being convenient.

Who took my kindness as a green light to extract every ounce of energy they could and then spun the narrative so it looked like I was the problem.

I’m not here to pretend I deserved that. I didn’t.

But I am here to say—I participated in those dynamics, even unknowingly.

And if I don’t name that, I can’t change it.

It doesn’t mean I forgive everything.

It doesn’t mean I’m saying “both sides were equally wrong.”

It means I looked at myself and went: what made me stay? What part of me needed this chaos? What was I trying to prove?

That’s what self-awareness does.

It doesn’t turn blame into forgiveness.

It turns pain into a lesson.

And I’d rather be someone who learns than someone who repeats.

So now? I check in with myself. Often.

I ask:

• Am I giving because I want to… or because I’m afraid I’ll be forgotten if I don’t?

• Am I offering this because it feels good… or because I feel guilty if I don’t?

• Am I receiving this kindness with an open heart… or am I bracing for the invoice?

And it’s wild how much that small pause has changed my relationships.

Because now I can feel the difference in my nervous system.

Real kindness calms me.

Manufactured kindness charges me up—makes me overthink, makes me restless, makes me prepare for the fall.

It activates that deep, old fear of being used. Of being dropped. Of being too much or not enough.

But I don’t want to live there anymore.

I don’t want to keep bracing for impact every time someone’s nice to me.

I don’t want to keep performing generosity just to feel worthy.

I want slowness.

I want presence.

I want to trust that if someone gives me something, I can receive it without paying a price.

That if I give something, it’s because it came from joy—not obligation.

And look… this shit is hard.

When you’re raised on manipulation, real connection feels like a foreign language.

When you’re taught that love is transactional, unconditional kindness feels fake.

When you’ve survived on being needed, being loved for simply existing feels terrifying.

But it’s possible.

It’s learnable.

It’s rewritable.

And I know that because I’m doing it.

Messily.

Imperfectly.

But every day, I choose to believe that the safest thing I can be is honest.

That I’m worthy of being chosen—not because I’m useful, but because I’m me.

And if you’re listening to this thinking, damn, I’ve been stuck in this too—you’re not alone.

If you’ve been burned by fake kindness and you’re scared to open up again—you’re not broken.

If you’ve found yourself giving too much, hoping someone will love you back—you’re not manipulative.

You’re human.

You learned survival.

And now, you get to learn something else.

You get to learn what it means to be kind without keeping score.

To receive without shrinking.

To rest in the love people offer you—and the love you offer yourself.

So here’s what I’ll leave you with:

If you’re not sure whether the kindness you’re receiving—or giving—is real…

Ask yourself:

Do I feel safe? Or do I feel like I’m auditioning?

Do I feel full? Or do I feel like I’m being fed just enough to stay hungry?

Do I feel like I can say no… and still be loved?

If the answer is no, that’s not kindness.

That’s performance.

That’s control.

That’s old survival dressed up like love.

But you?

You deserve real love.

Real slowness.

Real rest.

The kind that holds you instead of hooking you.

And if no one’s told you lately—

You’re already worthy.

You’re already enough.

You don’t have to perform to be loved here.

Thanks for being with me today.

And if this resonated—send it to someone who’s still learning how to receive.

We’re all in this together. No strings attached.

Okay.

Love you.

Bye.