Who am I when I'm not making other people feel comfortable?

In yachting, “yes, no problem” isn’t just a response, it’s a reflex.

From the moment I stepped into the interior department, I learned that service meant anticipation. You don’t wait for a request, you sense it.

Need fresh uniforms? Sorted.

Captain’s coffee? Already steaming.

The guest’s favourite candle scent? Lit before they arrive.

That rhythm , noticing, fixing, smoothing, it becomes your heartbeat. It’s how we build excellence onboard. But slowly, imperceptibly, it starts to seep into who you are off the vessel too.

When I left yachting, and even in my 2:2 days, I felt there was this deep-rooted need to be helpful, to be liked, to be essential.

At first, I told myself it was just being “kind” or “considerate.” But really, I was addicted to that small rush of validation , those words of affirmation that say:

“You’re amazing.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You always think of everything.”

Because on board, that’s the only feedback I got. No performance reviews, no promotions, no bonuses that feel worth the sleepless nights, just recognition. So you start chasing it. You build your self-worth around it.

And when you step ashore, that dynamic doesn’t automatically switch off.

Yachting trains you to equate value with usefulness.

If you’re not doing something for someone, you start to feel invisible.

Psychologists call this “fawning”, one of the body’s responses to stress or fear, alongside fight, flight, and freeze. In high-pressure environments like yachts, fawning (pleasing, appeasing, anticipating) becomes a survival skill.

But later, it shows up as:

• Saying yes when you mean no

• Apologising for things that aren’t your fault

• Over-explaining yourself

• Feeling anxious when someone’s disappointed

• Being unable to relax when others around you are uncomfortable

Sound familiar?

I used to think my people-pleasing was personality, that I was just “thoughtful.”

But really, it was training. Years of scanning rooms, reading moods, and fixing atmospheres had conditioned me to find safety in everyone else’s comfort.

If someone was off, I took it personally. If there was tension, I felt it.

If someone was sad, I tried to fix it, not out of compassion, but because I couldn’t bear the discomfort.

I started to ask myself:

“Who am I when I’m not making other people feel comfortable?”

And at first, the answer was silence.

Stepping off yachts gave me a chance to rebuild that sense of self. But it wasn’t smooth.

When the praise stopped coming, when there was no guest smiling or captain nodding approval, I felt a kind of withdrawal.

So I had to find new measures of worth.

Here’s what I learned:

1. Presence is enough.

   You don’t need to bring a service or a solution to be valuable. Sometimes being in the room, listening, sharing, is the most human thing you can do.

   
   

2. Not everyone’s comfort is your responsibility.

   This one stings. It’s okay if someone feels awkward, annoyed, or sad, those emotions are part of their own experience, not yours to smooth over.

   
   

3. Boundaries aren’t barriers.

   Saying “no” isn’t unkind, it’s respectful. Every “no” to something draining is a “yes” to energy that could fuel what you actually value.

Try this once a day for a week:

• Sit somewhere quiet, even for five minutes.

• Resist the urge to fix, to tidy, to scroll, to reach out.

• Notice what rises in the silence.

  • Do you feel restless?

  • Do you start to list what you “should” be doing?

  • Do you feel guilty for sitting still?

That discomfort is where the growth begins.

When you stop performing for others, you meet yourself again, awkward, unsure, but real. And with time, that person becomes enough.

If you’ve spent years being the calm in everyone else’s storm, it can feel unnatural to choose stillness. But here’s the truth: you deserve the same care you’ve been giving away.

You are more than the comfort you create for others.

And the moment you believe that, the real healing begins.

Resonates? Get in touch today to share your experience amelia@crewpass.co.uk