The Fawn Response: How Trauma Makes You a People Pleaser
Have you ever walked away from a conversation feeling completely drained — even though nothing “bad” seemed to happen?
You can’t quite explain it. The person seemed nice enough. You smiled, you listened, you did everything “right.”
But later, your body feels like it just ran a marathon.
That’s often what happens when the fawn response takes over — when your nervous system decides that pleasing, agreeing, or staying small is the safest option. It’s automatic. It’s invisible while it’s happening. And it can leave you wondering why being “nice” costs so much energy.
Here’s a story that shows exactly what that looks like in real time.
When Fawning Takes Over Without You Realizing It
A few months ago, a woman I’d met at parties in another city messaged me. She was visiting my city for the weekend and wanted to catch up.
It sounded simple — coffee, maybe a chat. I thought, why not? It could be nice to connect with someone. We agreed to meet for a beer instead.
At first, everything felt normal. She was friendly, confident, polished — the kind of person who seems to have everything figured out.
But by the end of that weekend, I was completely drained. It took me four full days to feel like myself again.
The Conversation That Looked Normal — But Wasn’t
When we sat down, she talked a lot about her achievements. She told me she “studies happiness,” that she’s a product manager, that she leads a team, that people are joining her side project to make the world a better place.
Every sentence carried a subtle message: I’m someone important. Part of me wondered if I was just being sensitive. But I know this feeling.
When someone inflates themselves, my body notices. I start to shrink. I stop taking up space. I listen harder. I smile more.
That’s fawning — trying to stay safe by staying agreeable.
The Subtle Power Plays
When I asked about her side hustle, she never really answered. She circled around it with vague, intellectual talk — “helping people,” “changing the world.” She mentioned she had a master’s degree in psychology and leaned on it a lot.
Every opinion she gave came with an implied “trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
At one point, she told me she doesn’t speak to her parents anymore — her father pressured her to be “a typical girl,” and she proudly cut him off. The way she said it wasn’t painful or reflective. It was triumphant, almost like a badge of superiority.
Something about it didn’t sit right. It didn’t sound like healing. It sounded like control.
The Polite Masks
She told me that managing people is easy — “you just show a little interest and they’re happy.” That line hit me strangely.
It felt like she saw connection as a tactic, not a feeling.
Later, when I mentioned that I’d had to move countries twice to escape narcissistic abuse, she simply said, “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
A textbook response.
No curiosity. No follow-up. Just a polite checkbox ticked. Even during dancing, after every song, she’d compliment me:
“You’re such a good leader.”
“You dance beautifully.”
It sounded kind, but it felt rehearsed — like something she’d learned to say in a psychology workshop. Compliments can be genuine, of course. But when they come without warmth or presence, they feel empty — and oddly manipulative.
The Missing Curiosity
She talked about herself a lot. About her education, her career, her goals. But she never asked about mine.
Not when I mentioned my side hustle.
Not when I shared something personal.
It wasn’t that she was rude — it was that I didn’t exist in her world. I was an audience, not a person. That realization hit hard later.
In the moment, I just kept smiling and nodding — my nervous system doing its old trick: fawning.
The Aftermath
When the weekend ended, I felt completely empty. Not angry. Not sad. Just… drained.
It wasn’t like talking with a friend — the kind of chat that leaves you tired but fulfilled. This was different.
It was like every cell in my body had been listening for danger the whole time. I realized later that I’d spent hours subconsciously trying to stay “pleasant,” “safe,” and “non-threatening.”
That’s what the fawn response does — it overrides your authenticity to avoid potential rejection or conflict.
The Moment I Saw It Clearly
During one conversation, she mentioned going to a Tony Robbins event. I said I wasn’t a fan — that his advice feels too simplistic, not trauma-informed.
I softened it immediately: “I’m not trying to change your opinion, but that’s just been my experience.”
Classic fawning.
Even when I did express my view, I wrapped it in apology — just to keep the peace. Later, I felt guilty for even saying it. That’s how deep the conditioning runs.
What I Learned From This
She was polite. She didn’t argue or insult me. But something in my body knew I wasn’t safe being myself. There was subtle grandiosity in her — and old fear in me.
That combination woke up my fawn reflex instantly. Looking back, I can see how automatic it was:
- I shrank. I praised. I kept the peace.
- All without realizing it in the moment.
That’s what fawning can look like — not dramatic, not obvious, but quietly exhausting.
You walk away wondering why you’re so tired, why you feel small, why you need days to recover.
And only later do you realize: Your nervous system wasn’t in conversation mode. It was in survival mode.
Reflection
Looking back, that coffee meeting taught me something important — not about her, but about me.
How quickly my system still tries to stay safe by fawning.
How easy it is to miss the subtle red flags when you’re focused on keeping the peace.
In the next article, I’ll break down those red flags — the tiny cues that signal when someone’s energy is pulling you into that survival pattern. If you’ve ever left a “nice” interaction feeling smaller, drained, or invisible, that next piece will help you understand why. Click here to read “10 red flags of a narcissistic dynamic”.
