I’ve never been easygoing, and I don’t think I was meant to be. I’ve always questioned the status quo, pushed back on weak logic, and felt compelled to dissect the uncomfortable parts of things in order to understand them, improve them, or at least tell the truth about them. That’s followed me my whole life, and so have the labels that tend to come with it. I’m difficult. Too much. Intense. Sharp. Uncompromising. Stubborn.

What took me much longer to understand is why, despite all that, I’m so consistently drawn to people who present as the opposite. Always the easygoing ones, the flexible ones, the nice guys. The people who seem calm, agreeable, and adaptable in ways that feel like relief instead of contrast. I call them shapeshifters.

It usually begins the same way. To them, I feel solid, and that solidity feels safe. I have a pretty strong sense of who I am, and I don’t change much from relationship to relationship or room to room. I don’t mold myself into different versions depending on who I’m with. If you don’t have that same steadiness, being around someone who does can feel grounding. Without either of us naming it, they begin to lean on it. They borrow my spine. Temporarily.

From my side, their flexibility reads as ease and softness. After a lifetime of being told I’m a lot, a lack of friction is soothing, so I mistake it for compatibility. I tell myself it’s balance, that this is what it looks like when two very different temperaments meet in the middle. I was always told to date my opposite. My parents have been married for almost sixty years and are wildly different people, and they swear that difference is what’s kept them together. I think I absorbed that story, too. In my own relationships, though, it has usually turned out to be asymmetry that hadn’t revealed its cost yet.

Early on, my clarity feels comforting to my partners. My boundaries are seen as strength. My willingness to name things looks like confidence and leadership. But clarity doesn’t fade with time, and boundaries don’t soften just because someone wishes they would. Eventually, what once felt stabilizing starts to feel constraining. My refusal to make myself smaller gets recast as rigidity. Why am I so stubborn? Why can’t I just compromise? My steadiness becomes control. That’s usually the moment I’m reminded that I’m “difficult,” even though nothing about me has actually changed.

What has changed is the dynamic.

I end up holding the emotional weight of the relationship while my partners quietly set it down. I stay with my own perspective even when it’s uncomfortable. The people I’ve been with tend to shift themselves around whoever they’re closest to, absorbing opinions, moods, and ways of seeing things without quite realizing they’re doing it. When conflict finally surfaces, I look like the problem simply because I haven’t moved. I haven’t reshaped myself to keep things smooth. I’ve stayed exactly who I am.

I’m often told that things would be easier if I were calmer, more relaxed, more easygoing. Maybe they would be. But what that usually means in practice is me giving permission for avoidance, and avoidance has never actually made anything better. I’m not built to disappear for the sake of peace, and I don’t think peace that requires disappearance deserves the name.

So why do I keep choosing these people?

The uncomfortable truth, for me, is that I’m very comfortable being the one who notices when something is off and refuses to pretend otherwise. I’m used to naming what’s happening, holding my ground, and staying clear headed when situations get murky. Easygoing partners let me stay in that role without much resistance, at least at first. They don’t push back or challenge me. They don’t escalate. After years of being told I’m too much, that lack of engagement feels like rest.

They also don’t threaten my sense of self. I’m used to being solid, and with them, nothing pushes hard enough to really test that. There’s no risk of being talked out of what I think or feel. I mistake the absence of friction for understanding, even when it’s really just agreement for the sake of peace. Being the grounded one stops being something I do and starts being who I am, and easygoing partners let me stay there without much negotiation. That’s comfortable, even when it isn’t mutual.

I don’t screen for solidity. I screen for ease, calm, and kindness. I don’t pay enough attention to whether someone can hold a position when it matters, disagree without shutting down, or stay themselves when I stay myself. I tend to overfunction, carrying clarity for two people because it feels familiar and efficient, even though it isn’t sustainable. I tolerate vagueness far longer than I should, assuming it will firm up with time, even when experience keeps telling me otherwise.

From their side, I offer something they don’t have. Not consciously or maliciously, but emotionally. I come with strong opinions, firm boundaries, and a steadiness that doesn’t disappear under pressure. Being near someone who knows what they think, what they feel, and where they stand can feel anchoring. Over time, though, the weight of that steadiness becomes something they push against. What once felt like strength starts to feel like pressure, and the story shifts so my clarity becomes the problem.

Conflict avoidance plays a big role in how this falls apart. Avoiding conflict doesn’t make it disappear, it just keeps it out of sight. When disagreement feels dangerous, it never gets practiced. Agreement means peace. By the time either of us says what’s actually happening, resentment has already taken the place of honest difference and we both end up feeling misled.

They don’t mean to hand the work to me, but they do. They go along wherever I lead, adjust where I hold firm, and smooth things over until they can’t anymore. When resentment finally surfaces, my steadiness becomes the problem.

“Easygoing” is often treated as a virtue, but it’s often less about calm and more about staying safe. It’s a way of keeping the peace when conflict feels threatening. It’s also a convenient way to avoid responsibility and self-examination. The calm agreeableness people praise is often the same calm that avoids hard conversations, sidesteps accountability, and finds quieter ways around discomfort.

People who really know themselves can be flexible without disappearing. They know where they stand, so compromise doesn’t cost them much. People who don’t have that footing tend to acquiesce because disagreement feels too risky. Over time, their preferences fade into the background, their opinions shift, and they start to sound like whoever they’re closest to.

None of this makes anyone a villain. It isn’t a moral failure. It’s something that once helped them keep the peace, but now gets in the way of being fully known. And when someone isn’t known, they aren’t really loved for who they are. That’s how the pattern keeps repeating. They keep adapting in search of connection, hoping to be seen and loved, but the constant adjusting makes that impossible. The very thing they’re using to stay close is what keeps real closeness out.

Real change only comes when someone is willing to look at themselves honestly and take responsibility for their part in the pattern. I’ve learned that the hard way, and I’m choosing not to keep living inside it.

I don’t need someone easy. I need someone anchored. Someone who can stay present when we disagree, choose rather than simply adapt, and stand upright without leaning on my spine to do it.

So, no more Mr. Nice Guy for me, thank you very much.