The high cost of being easygoing

When "going with the flow" becomes a way of opting out of a relationship, the resulting silence creates a hollow kind of harmony.

I’ve been wondering about the difference between ‘content’ and ‘easygoing’. I have, from time to time recently, described myself as content, but in my more insecure moments, I worry that this is seen as ‘easygoing’ - non-committal, going with the flow, happy to let others make decisions.

I think it’s at least partially true. I really don’t mind where we eat, I find pleasure equally in most things (just don’t ask me to sing and dance or listen to techno), and I’d like to think my flexibility is an expression of presence rather than absence.

I suspect I sometimes take the path of least resistance, but I still tend to be the decision-maker.

In my work life, I’ve needed to be the decision-maker for decades, leading organisations and companies comes with a price - the buck stops here. It can be exhausting, being someone everyone else looks to for direction. I’ve almost never pushed back on that burden, though in recent times I have socially. It came at the end of a busy few months, and just for once, I asked people around me to take on the ‘organiser’ role for a moment, to give me a break.

I think there is a version of easygoing, like mine, that is valid

But I’m conscious of another kind.

Because there is a point at which flexibility stops being a virtue and becomes a disappearing act. When someone is perpetually easygoing, they may be engaging in a quiet kind of withdrawal. By refusing to voice a preference, claim a boundary, or start a difficult conversation, they are bypassing the friction required for genuine intimacy. It is a defensive shield disguised as a smile.

In the past, I know I have regularly acquiesced to avoid conflict, perceived or real. Or to avoid revealing too much of myself. I’ve self-erased a thought before expressing it in case it led to disagreement. I settled for the ‘quiet life’ rather than an authentic one.

It’s not my behaviour itself, deferring and agreeing can look identical irrespective of my internal dialogue. It’s a distinction that feels different inside but outwardly looks the same, yet one that, when practised regularly, is detrimental to your relationships and connections.

When I withhold my authentic self to avoid the perceived danger of conflict, I’m opting for a false equilibrium. On the surface, I’m portraying a peaceful demeanour -- I’m not roaming round slamming doors or sitting in sullen silence. But there’s a price being paid by the people around me, others are left to carry the weight of decision-making. And that’s a burden that leads to decision fatigue and a growing distrust.

I’ve realised this is also a form of gaslighting of the person who does speak up in a pairing where one is ‘fine with whatever’ and the other person expresses a need to raise a grievance, because they are cast as the difficult one. Counterintuitively, the honest person can be seen as difficult or demanding.

True intimacy requires the risk of your authentic self being known. That means admitting when you’re annoyed, stating what you actually want for lunch, and being willing to weather the small storms of disagreement. Conflict isn’t a sign of failure; it is the sound of two distinct people trying to live honestly alongside one another.

If we prioritise peace at any price, we eventually find ourselves in a hollowed-out partnership. You cannot truly know someone who refuses to be difficult.

I’m going to watch myself. If I hear myself saying ‘I don’t mind’, I’ll need to double-check that it’s an honestly ambivalent answer, not one grounded in avoidance. It’s okay not to genuinely have a preference; that’s contentment. But if I feel I’m filtering or suppressing, I need to notice, because my silence has a price.