Goodbye to the Good Girl: Reclaiming My Power

For decades of my life, the desire to be good and universally liked shaped nearly everything I did. At the time, I didn’t realize this was a trauma response—an effort to stay safe in a world that often felt overwhelming and unpredictable. But the culture around me rewarded and reinforced it, making the quest to be a “good girl” feel not only necessary but noble.

My Jekyll and Hyde

As an undiagnosed autistic person with PDA, I developed what felt like two distinct sides to my personality. On one side was my “good girl,” the part of me that showed up at school, with peers, and often at home. This side of me lived on high alert, constantly reading and responding to the needs and emotions of others. I was hyper-aware of every tiny twist and turn in their expressions and moods, striving to meet their needs so perfectly and so quickly that I might avoid rejection entirely.

And the world loved my good girl.

Teachers praised how helpful and kind I was. Friends valued my loyalty, my thoughtfulness, my willingness to sacrifice for their happiness. To others, I was a leader, selfless and dependable.

But playing that role came at a cost.

Behind the scenes, the “good girl” left me depleted, hollow, and constantly on edge. Contorting myself to meet others’ expectations was exhausting—not just emotionally, but physically. My nervous system was constantly in overdrive, and the toll was immense.

At the same time, there was another part of me, a shadow side that felt more like my truest self—my autistic self. This side was honest, raw, and uncompromising. I had strong opinions, a deep need for control over my life, and an intolerance for the nuance and flexibility the world seemed to demand. I was often labeled bossy, explosive, inflexible, and demanding.

Where the “good girl” was praised, this shadow side was rejected. And I learned that the safer and more honest I was, the more the world pushed back. The clearer I was about my boundaries or my emotions, the more I was shamed. But when I ignored my own needs, when I hollowed myself out to please others, everyone thought I was doing great.

Becoming Perfect

Over time, this dichotomy fused into one identity: the perfectionist. In both realms, perfectionism seemed like the key to survival. If I could just get everything exactly right—if I could meet everyone’s expectations without breaking—I might be okay.

But perfectionism didn’t save me. It only deepened the harm. And for internalizing PDA-ers like me, that harm is often invisible. Instead of expressing a clear “no” to the world, I said “yes” when I meant “no.” My suffering stayed hidden, ignored by a world that saw only the smiling, high-achieving exterior.

Though I tried many times to shed my perfectionism in therapy, in friendships, and in healthy work environments, I don’t know if I would have ever broken through the trap of being “good” on my own. I guess I’ll never know, because what happened next changed everything.

My “good girl” identity effortlessly morphed into my “good mom” role. All the assumptions, lessons, and embodied wisdom that had kept me safe for the first couple decades of my life came with me as I stepped into motherhood. I believed I would follow the same rules, play the same role, and finally become the “good mom” I’d always dreamed of being.

And then…it just wasn’t possible.

The greatest gift of my life came to me in the form of children who broke the rules I had lived by. They refused to play the part, and in doing so, they invited me out of the cage I had built for myself.

As I looked at my children—who were so wonderfully, beautifully, and perfectly themselves—I felt this aching love for them exactly as they were. And I realized that the rules I’d lived by all my life, the rules of being “good,” would wound them.

Those rules would shave away their beautiful edges, forcing them into a box where they could never fit. I couldn’t do that to them. I couldn’t carve away their integrity and wholeness and leave their truth on the floor in broken shards.

But here’s the thing: I couldn’t force them into the box, and they couldn’t stay with me in mine.

And so they broke me free.

My kids tore down the bars of the cage I had lived in with their simple existence. They refused to follow the rules, and in doing so, they made it impossible for me to follow them either.

I had children who wore pajamas, costumes, or nothing at all in public because clothes were unbearable. I had a toddler who refused to eat unless his food was cut into chokingly large chunks, rejecting every “normal” bite his preschool teacher placed in front of him until she gave in. I had a child who growled at other kids on the playground and pushed anyone who stepped into his space, no matter how many hands I had or how many eyes were watching.

And the world judged me.

Good parents don’t let their kids push other children down the slide. Good parents don’t have kids who eat that way, dress that way, or behave that way.

For the first time in my life, the “good parent” identity wasn’t something I could reach for. It was simply out of my grasp.

Choosing Something Better

In the beginning, I didn’t want to leave the cage. I didn’t want to dismantle the idea of being “good” because to me, good meant safe. Even if it meant limited. Even if it meant contained.

But my children’s very existence made that impossible. And in loving them, I found something I wanted more than I wanted to be “good.”

I wanted to truly see my kids. To love them in the full complexity of who they were, not as a reflection of my ability to perform as a parent. I realized that being a “good parent” was about performance, about judgment. It required an invisible jury of my peers, evaluating who was good and who was not.

I decided I was no longer interested in that story or that performance.

What mattered more to me was the real, living, embodied relationship with my specific children. The only eyes I cared about were these three sets of eyes. The only judgment that mattered to me was whether my kids would press their faces into mine as though they were looking into my soul and call me a stupid butt face—a phrase that, in our house, meant, “I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

That was the moment I said goodbye to the good girl, goodbye to the good mom, and hello to the powerhouse who was ready to show up for the real, messy, beautiful truth of our lives.

 Are you ready to be your own powerhouse?? Check out Aligning With Yourself to help you release the guild, reclaim your truth, and step into a life that actually works for you!