Hi, I’m Aziza, and I’ve spent a lifetime trying to be liked. Especially at work. 

I’m one of 56% of women who’ve felt pressure to be likeable at work, compared to just 36% of men, according to a report from Good Shout Community: ‘Shapeshifters: What We Do at Work to Be Liked’.

It doesn’t sound all that bad, does it? To be liked. It can feel warm and safe. But that pressure bubbles beneath the surface. And eventually, it boils over. 

The pressure to be liked cost me. Financially. Mentally. At one point, it even cost me my name. More on that later. 

First, I want you to think about this: What’s being liked at work costing you?  It’s not something we’re ever asked, is it? Especially within systems “that reward performance over authenticity”. This research from Good Shout started with a hypothesis: “In order to be seen as nice enough, women are shapeshifting and hiding their true selves.

The data shows that while both men and women want to be seen as likeable, women are 15% more likely to change how they act or speak.

The Hidden Labour of Likeability 

Rewording emails so you don’t sound ‘too much.’ Downplaying achievements so you don’t alienate others. Apologising for things that don’t need an apology.

If you’ve done any of this, you might be due compensation.

There’s no hotline for claiming back the emotional and financial damages of being likeable at work, but there should be. Because this kind of likeability isn’t free. It’s labour.

Amy Kean, sociologist and founder of Good Shout Community and the Unlikeable Woman Summit, calls it likeability labour, which she describes as: “The energy spent shaping yourself into something palatable. The time that gets taken from you when you have to consider being liked on top of an already hectic to-do list.” Exhausting. 

Being Liked Is About Safety, But It’s Not Safe. 

Neuroscientist Matthew Lieberman compares our need for social connection to food or shelter. We are wired to connect, to belong, as a survival instinct.  Being liked and belonging can go hand-in-hand. 

Historically, being cast out meant no community, no food, no survival. That wiring hasn’t disappeared. For many of us, the silent equation still runs in the background: Me + Being liked = Survival

In the workplace, especially for women, this equation is unfairly calculated in every meeting, interaction, call, and project: Being likeable = progress

The reason why we’re rarely asked, “What’s being liked at work costing you?” may be that from a young age, women are socialised for likability. Studies show that in school, girls are taught to manage how others feel; boys, to manage outcomes.

From school to performance reviews, women are still judged by how they make others feel. Research by Shelley Correll and Caroline Simard at Stanford found that women receive vaguer, less outcome-focused feedback than men. And when feedback is given, it often targets tone over substance, with words like bossy, emotional, and abrasive showing up more often in reviews of women than men.

It’s a loop of malleable likability that rewards compliance over honesty. All of this is before you even add an intersectional lens, with race, social class, and neurodiversity into consideration. 

The Cost of Self

I was 19 in my first corporate job. One morning, I got called into a last-minute meeting for a catch-up, and my nerves were shot. 

The “catch-up” was a warning about my tone. I’d been using “Regards”,  the same sign-off as a senior male colleague. Apparently, I sounded rude and  “breathing contempt” through the team.  It should’ve been “Kind Regards.” While my male colleague continued with Regards, I had to adjust to kindness centered rhetoric.

After that, every email I wrote took twice as long, not checking for typos, but for tone. The feedback kept coming: it was what I wore, how I sounded, rarely, the work itself. I became hyper-aware of how I was coming across. I shapeshifted.

Years later, a colleague set up an “apology jar” for me because I apologised constantly. I was one of the 40% of women who say “sorry” when we need something, using it as a shield against seeming arrogant or abrasive (Good Shout Community).

Likeability was quite literally costing me.

It showed up outside of work, too. When I introduced myself as Aziza, it was often met with confusion and mispronunciation. I rarely corrected people, I didn’t want to seem rude. I even had an elderly neighbour ask if I’d consider going by Ann, “to make things easier for people”. I started going by Ziz instead. 

It seemed like a small thing, but it wasn’t. Straightening my hair, changing my name, holding in my words. I was shaving off parts of myself to fit in. The thing about cutting away parts of yourself is that your full self will always demand to be heard.

For me, the reckoning was physical. After too many micro-moments, my body gave out to back-to-back panic attacks in an office bathroom. Saying yes to underpaid work. Burning out in silence, afraid of being seen as difficult. The system told me if I kept everyone comfortable, I’d progress. Instead, I plummeted. I went on stress leave. Then into therapy. Six years later, I’m still building myself back.

The Unlikeable Experiment

What if we reframed what it means to be unlikeable? This is what follows the Unlikeable Women Summit from Amy Kean. 

Unlikeable women are often described as difficult, direct, opinionated, and loud. Funnily enough, I have never met an unlikeable woman that I didn’t like. 

I have never met an unlikeable woman who didn’t move me deeply, show me what I could aim for, and help remove fear from my actions. 

Being unlikeable isn’t about being cruel. It’s about being real and removing the grey area (something my neurodivergent brain deeply appreciates).

It can be questioning the status quo and calling out toxic patterns, something the world needs more of, especially now.

I’m proudly on my journey to becoming an unlikeable woman. In small ways, every day. How I write emails. Saying no. Apologising when I actually need to. Saying what I think, even if it makes someone uncomfortable. It’s not a switch. It’s a practice.

And so far? It hasn’t cost me. I haven’t lost everything. I haven’t stopped surviving. If anything, I’m getting more back.

A little less obsession with what people think. Better relationships. More time. And work that sounds and feels like me. So I’ll ask again, what’s being liked at work costing you? And what might you get back if you joined me in this experiment?

Regards, Aziza