Back in 2024, there was a loud, widely applauded digital reckoning against people-pleasing. From self-help creators to TikTok psychologists to, honestly, just fed-up friends online, everyone echoed the same sentiment, “Anyone who claims they’re a people pleaser never actually pleased anyone.”
And for many, that hit.
People-pleasing stopped being framed as kindness and started being understood as what it often was—boundaryless attempts to be liked. Conflict avoidance, wrapped in an inability to say “no,” tied together with anxiety.
And after that reckoning? The posts slowed, the confessions declined, and the pleasers disappeared.
In 2026, I started wondering, where did they go?
To answer that, I called up New York City–based licensed mental health counselor Jennifer (Jenni) Ochiagha, who says many people-pleasers went to therapy, some stayed online, and somewhere in that mix, many fell down what she describes as a people-pleasing-to-strict-program pipeline.
At first glance, people-pleasing and strict programming seem like opposites. One avoids boundaries and conflict while craving validation; the other enforces boundaries and appears unbothered by external opinions.
But Ochiagha reminds us they aren’t that different and can often be embodied by the same person. Because whether it’s people-pleasing or strict programming, the underlying impulse can be the same: control.
“A people pleaser controls by overgiving—if I do enough, I’ll get this outcome,” she explains. “Someone with a strict program controls through rules—if I set enough standards, I’ll get the energy I want.”
Different approaches, yet the same objective is being sought out.
Often, the recovering people-pleaser begins regulating their need to please by establishing boundaries that, if too rigid, start to look like walls.
“When somebody goes through something difficult, sometimes they overcorrect,” Ochiagha says. “You go from ‘I can’t say no’ to ‘I should say no to everything.’”
What starts as an attempt to build healthier habits can slide into less healthy patterns, like external control instead of internal boundaries and distance instead of connection.
Another overlap? Communication, or the lack of it.
Many strict programs are guarded by avoidant declarations like, “I don’t owe anyone anything” and “I won’t be explaining myself.”
Ochiagha laughs when I mention this. “Is it that you have a strict program,” she asked, “or do you not know how to effectively communicate discomfort, so you’d rather just distance yourself?”
She explains that communication avoidance can be a comfort zone for recovering people-pleasers, but it undermines real boundary setting and community building.
“Realistically, nobody knows you like that when they’re first getting to know you,” she says. “The only way someone knows what I like or don’t like is if I let them know.”
Still, overcorrecting is common, and social media seems to reward the most extreme versions of it.
“I run a strict program,” social media captions read.
And the “program” sounds like your friends and partners must make six figures, be fully healed from all childhood trauma, communicate perfectly, never trigger you, and never disappoint you—while also having the “right” body, height, complexion, and aesthetic.
What started as people implementing stronger boundaries has turned into public performances of rigid external rules. Now the overcorrection isn’t just personal; it’s marketed, monetized, and mass-consumed.
As Ochiagha puts it, “The strict program is also for aesthetics… for social media. Because why are you telling us about your strict program? Just have it.”
And as more people rely on these public declarations to guide their boundaries, the standards are getting…questionable. I’ve seen colorism, body discrimination, misogyny, and classism repackaged as “standards.”
Still, Ochiagha is clear: just because something is trendy doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad. Boundary-setting, at its core, is a healthy practice. But if you’re going to build a strict program, she says, it has to be done with intention.
Your strict program should be rooted in boundaries—not control
Boundaries aren’t about controlling others; they’re about regulating yourself.
“A boundary is not you telling somebody what to do,” Ochiagha says. “A boundary is you telling someone what you’re not going to allow.”
So if your program is full of rules about how others must behave to access you, that’s not boundaries, that’s control.
We can’t control how people show up. What we can control is ourselves: our limits, our responses, and how consistently we uphold them.
Be clear about what you actually want
Before building boundaries, ask yourself, “What do I actually want?”
Not what sounds good online, but what matters to you.
As Ochiagha explains, it comes down to alignment: “Is this in alignment with the person I am?”
If it’s not, you can let it go. But that requires honesty, not performance.
Weigh the risk and reward
Every strict program comes with consequences.
Yes, strict boundaries might protect your peace, but they can also cost you connection. If your standards are so rigid that few people can meet them, loneliness is a real possibility.
And if you’re okay with that, cool, stand on it.
But if nobody ever seems to “fit the bill,” it’s worth asking, am I creating a space where people can actually get close to me?
As Ochiagha puts it, if your boundary is “I’m keeping everyone out,” then not many people will get in—good or bad. If your boundaries are too loose, you might have a full room, but not a meaningful one.
She offered a metaphor that stuck with me: you can be an elite venue with all the rules in the world, but are you even a place people want to be?
Because if the “party” you’re hosting comes with endless restrictions and no room for imperfection, people might not show up.
So set your boundaries. Be intentional. Exercise strictness.
But also regularly ask yourself, am I creating the kind of connection, opportunities, and growth I say I want, or am I just performing in the pipeline?
