Lisa O
Most people don’t wake up deciding to use someone. It happens slowly, through comfort and convenience. You show up, you care, you follow through, and somewhere along the way, they stop noticing that you’re giving more than they are. They assume you’ll always be there. You assume they’ll eventually see the imbalance. Neither happens. Here are 15 ways people use you without even realizing it.
They vent, but never listen back.
You’ve memorized their heartbreaks, their frustrations, their family problems. You listen when no one else will, giving your time and patience freely. But when you try to talk about your own life, they check their phone, glance away, or give quick, distracted replies. You’re not having a friendship anymore — you’re performing emotional labor. They leave lighter, you leave heavier, and the cycle repeats until you realize they never actually asked how you were.
They “check in” only when they need something.
You get the same message every few weeks — friendly, casual, warm. It feels like someone missed you. But by the third sentence, it becomes clear they didn’t. They need a ride, advice, a connection, a favor, or your time. It’s not malicious, just self-centered. They don’t see that each “Hey, how have you been?” costs you energy to pretend you don’t know where it’s going. You answer anyway, because that’s who you are.
They rely on you to make decisions for them.
They ask what you think, but they’re not really asking. They want you to take the risk of being wrong. You become their emotional insurance policy — the person who carries the weight of their choices. When things go well, they thank their luck. When they don’t, you absorb the guilt. It’s disguised as trust, but it’s really avoidance. They never learned to stand on their own, so they lean on you until you can barely stand yourself.
They mistake your patience for permission.
You let small things go — the missed calls, the late replies, the forgotten plans. You tell yourself they’re just busy. But patience can look like approval to someone who doesn’t know how to respect limits. They start pushing further, assuming you’ll stay quiet. They confuse composure with acceptance. What they don’t realize is that your silence isn’t agreement. It’s a restraint. You’re just too tired to keep teaching lessons they should already know.
They treat your empathy like it’s endless.
You understand people too well for your own good. You can justify their behavior, see their side, and forgive what others wouldn’t. They learn this about you — and they use it. Not because they’re cruel, but because it’s easy. You always find a reason to excuse the hurt. They forget that empathy doesn’t mean endurance. Even soft hearts can break when they’re treated like emotional sponges.
They use your reliability as their backup plan.
You’re the person they call when everything else falls apart. When someone cancels, when plans change, when they need help at the last minute — suddenly you matter. They know you’ll say yes. You’re the safety net that makes their recklessness possible. They think it’s a compliment when they say, “You’re always there for me.” But it’s not praise. It’s a confession. It means they’ve stopped appreciating the fact that you always show up.
They mistake kindness for availability.
You’re generous, warm, and open. People sense it immediately. But somewhere along the way, kindness becomes interpreted as access. They text at midnight, drop responsibilities in your lap, or expect your help before asking if you even have time. Being nice doesn’t mean being available at all hours. It means being human — with your own limits, needs, and exhaustion. People forget that because your yes sounds softer than their no.
They take your understanding for granted.
You’ve become the person everyone assumes will understand. So they stop trying to explain. They cancel without notice. They forget birthdays. They don’t check if something hurts you, because they assume you’ll “get it.” Your empathy becomes their excuse not to put in effort. What they don’t realize is that understanding someone doesn’t mean never feeling disappointed by them. It just means you’ve stopped expecting them to notice.
They compliment you when they need reassurance.
They say things like “You’re so strong,” or “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” And in the moment, it sounds sincere. But the pattern shows up soon after — every compliment is followed by a request. It’s a soft prepayment for your energy. You start realizing the flattery is less about admiration and more about disarming you before the next ask. They make you feel seen, so you’ll stay useful.
They depend on your silence.
They know you hate conflict, that you’d rather protect peace than start an argument. So they stretch your boundaries inch by inch, counting on your quiet. They interpret your calm as compliance. Every time you let something slide, it tells them they can take a little more. What they don’t realize is that your silence isn’t weakness — it’s observation. You’re not ignoring the problem. You’re memorizing how they act when they think they can get away with it.
They only show up when you’re strong.
They love you when you’re glowing, when you’re funny, when you’re full of energy. But the second you’re tired, quiet, or struggling, they vanish. They don’t know what to do with the version of you that needs support. It’s not that they stopped caring — it’s that they only know how to take what you offer, not how to give it back. You learn that some people were never drawn to your soul — just the strength it gave them.
They make you the “safe listener.”
You’re the person everyone feels comfortable confiding in. They say you’re easy to talk to. What they don’t see is that every conversation takes something from you. You carry other people’s pain like secondhand smoke — invisible, but suffocating over time. They walk away lighter while you lie awake thinking about their problems. They didn’t mean to unload everything on you. They just never thought to ask if you could handle the weight.
They ask for “small favors” that add up.
One quick thing, one more little task, one small ask that somehow always lands on you. Each favor feels harmless in isolation, but together they form a quiet pattern of dependency. You start scheduling your time around their convenience without realizing it. You think you’re being helpful, but they’ve built their comfort on your effort. They never stop to consider how heavy “just one more thing” becomes when it never ends.
They mistake your generosity for obligation.
You help because you care. You give without keeping score. But at some point, the dynamic shifts. Gratitude turns into expectation. What was once a thank-you becomes an assumption. They no longer see your help as a gift — they see it as your job. And when you finally pull back, they call you selfish for doing less than everything. That’s how people turn generosity into guilt.
They think you don’t notice.
They believe your calm means you’re unaware. They think you’re too forgiving, too naive, too soft to see the imbalance. But you do. You’ve just chosen grace over confrontation because you know shouting won’t make them understand. You carry quiet awareness like armor — watching, remembering, deciding. And when you finally leave, they’ll call it sudden. But it won’t be sudden at all. It’ll be the moment you finally stop mistaking understanding for peace.