Low Maintenance is a Sales Pitch for Learning to Settle

Somewhere along the way, “low maintenance” became a compliment. A badge of honor. Proof that you are undemanding, effortlessly agreeable, and easy to be around. A woman who doesn’t ask for much. A woman who makes do. A woman who never makes anyone uncomfortable with her needs.

But let’s be honest about what it really is: a slow, quiet training in settling.

Because “low maintenance” is just another way of saying, I’ve been conditioned to expect less.

Less attention.

Less care.

Less effort.

Less of the love that requires presence and intention.

It’s the ability to swallow disappointment with a smile and pretend it doesn’t taste bitter. It’s learning to be grateful for crumbs because asking for a full meal feels like too much.

The world rewards you for it.

They say it like it’s something to be proud of - like it’s attractive.

“She’s so chill.”

“She’s not high maintenance.”

“She’s just happy with whatever.”

But what they really mean is: She doesn’t ask for more than what’s easy to give.

They praise women who are “low maintenance” because it makes their lives more convenient. Because it lets them off the hook. Because it means they never have to rise to meet us—we will always be the ones bending, adjusting, and lowering our expectations until they can reach.

And that’s the trick, isn’t it?

They teach us that being “easygoing” makes us lovable. That not having preferences makes us desirable. That not wanting too much makes us a good catch.

But who benefits from that?

Because let’s be real: there is no reward for being easy to please. You don’t get a gold star for going with the flow. You don’t win a prize for being the least amount of work to love. All you get is a lifetime of convincing yourself that scraps are enough. That effort is too much to ask for. That wanting more makes you unreasonable.

And then one day, you wake up and realize you’ve built a life on a foundation of “it’s fine” and “it’s not a big deal” and “I don’t really need that anyway.” And you wonder why you feel so empty.

But here’s the thing about emptiness: it doesn’t happen all at once.

At first, it feels like pride. Independence. Strength. You convince yourself that you don’t need much, and that makes you resilient. You tell yourself that being happy with less means you’re self-sufficient, easy to love, the kind of person who doesn’t make waves.

Then, over time, the weight of everything you didn’t ask for starts to settle in.

The birthday no one planned for.

The date nights that stopped happening. The phone calls that never come.

The friendships that only exist when you’re the one reaching out. The quiet realization that no one ever considers what you might want, because you’ve trained them not to.

You don’t complain.

You don’t push back.

You don’t ask for more.

Because you’ve spent your whole life proving how little you need.

And what happens when you finally do?

What happens when you say, “I actually want something different”?

You hear it—the hesitation, the discomfort, the resistance.

“Since when do you care about that?”

“You never needed this before.”

“You’ve changed.”

As if needing something now negates every time you swallowed the need before. As if speaking up today erases all the times you stayed silent. As if the problem isn’t that they gave so little—it’s that you finally noticed.

You are not difficult for wanting to be chosen.

You are not needy for wanting effort.

You are not high maintenance for expecting to be met with the same energy you give.

You are allowed to want. You are allowed to take up space.

You are allowed to be with people who show up for you—not because it’s convenient, but because it’s what you deserve.

You deserve to get the kind of attention you give to the people in your life.

You were never meant to starve.