The Subtle Art of Not Needing Everyone to Like You

Observations on modern social dynamics

I was out at brunch over the weekend; you know, the type of brunch where the mimosas flow in discreetly dangerous quantities and everyone is attempting to seem casual but is, in fact, trying very hard to be seen.

Like any good writer, I spend these moments observing. Not actively — there’s no stalking here — but passively, letting the room speak to me. People’s gestures, their timing, the subtleties of how they occupy space.

Two older women, two tables over, caught my attention. They were mid-mimosa, leaning in conspiratorially, speaking with the kind of sly emphasis that makes you assume you’re about to hear some social justice debate or perhaps a secret recipe. But no, they were talking about someone else. Their “friend.” Or at least, someone who had once been. The exact details didn’t matter. What mattered was the sharpness of their critique, the ease with which they delivered judgment.

And I thought: I hope she doesn’t care.

Not because she’s unaware — most people are painfully aware when gossip is flying about them — but because she has learned the subtle, understated power of not needing everyone to like her.

Because here’s the truth: in a world where social validation is often treated as currency, not needing approval is its own quiet, astonishing rebellion.

We live in a time of constant assessment. Likes. Replies. Heart reacts. Comments. Swipe ups. Invitations accepted or declined, dinner reservations attended or skipped. Every choice comes with a metric, whether it’s quantified or just felt. The desire to be liked, admired, included, even tolerated, permeates our social architecture. And yet, the people who are truly enviable are rarely the ones who succeed at this game. They’re the ones who play it lightly, or not at all.

The woman who is the subject of the older ladies’ conversation — the one they casually dissected — she may never know. And even if she did, the impact would likely be minimal. Because when you live according to your own sense of value, external opinions don’t hold the same weight.

It’s not arrogance. It’s not indifference. It’s selective energy. It’s understanding that approval, like gossip, is often fleeting, shallow, or transactional. That someone else’s dislike is often more about them than it is about you.

I thought about how many times in our lives we’ve measured ourselves by the reception of others. How many decisions — what to wear, what to say, how to behave — have been informed more by imagined judgment than by our own intent. We curate, polish, censor, and perform, trying to anticipate who will approve and who won’t. And for what? A moment of perceived safety? A fleeting sense of belonging?

Meanwhile, real power — the kind that lasts beyond brunch gossip — lies in living in such a way that others’ approval becomes incidental.

I’m not claiming this is easy. Letting go of the need to be liked is deceptively difficult. It requires self-awareness, confidence, and, perhaps most importantly, patience with oneself. It’s recognizing that your worth does not expand or contract based on the opinions you hear from the next table over. That the world will always have people who don’t like you — and that’s okay. That’s inevitable. That’s human.

The woman in question, whoever she may be, is already living her life. She is doing her work, going about her joys, handling her grief, cultivating her moments of meaning. And when she does, she becomes magnetic not because she seeks admiration but because she inhabits herself fully. She is full-bodied in her presence, unapologetically alive. And that energy, in turn, attracts the right attention, attention grounded in authenticity rather than expectation.

It struck me as I watched those two women over mimosas: the world will always offer commentary. We will always be the subject of critique, observation, admiration, envy, or disdain. There is no way to opt out entirely. But there is a choice in how we respond. How much of it we internalize. How much space we give it to occupy in our inner lives.

Not needing everyone to like you doesn’t mean shutting yourself off. It doesn’t mean refusing connection or empathy. It means choosing carefully where your emotional bandwidth goes. It means discerning which voices inform growth and which are noise. It means recognizing that some judgment — especially casual, external judgment — is inconsequential to the story you’re writing with your own life.

And here’s the irony: the less you need everyone’s approval, the more fully people can actually see you. The more grounded you become in your own sense of worth, the more effortless your magnetism. You’re no longer a projection of collective desire; you’re a reflection of your own.

Brunch ended. The mimosas dissipated, the eggs were eaten, the conversation at the next table moved on to another topic, another target. Life went on, as it always does. But the lesson remained.

And in a world that constantly asks us to perform, to curate, to be palatable and agreeable, that kind of liberation is a rare and radical act.

So, to the woman two tables over — the one they were talking about, the one they might never even notice is quietly thriving — I hope she doesn’t care. I hope she knows that the casual judgments of others have no claim on her peace. That she carries her worth internally, impervious to the chatter of brunch tables and the fleeting assessments of strangers.

We all have a choice about whose opinions matter. And if we choose wisely, we learn something remarkable: that the world can critique, gossip, and judge endlessly — and we can keep our focus on the life we are creating, rather than the perceptions of those watching from afar.

We can sip our mimosas, eat our eggs, and carry on without needing everyone to like us.

And that, perhaps, is the most subtle, most sophisticated, and ultimately most liberating social skill of all.