I'm a recovering people pleaser. Now that I know what I want and need, I have better sex.

• As a people pleaser, I hyper-focused on my partner's needs during sex and ignored my own.
• I had performance anxiety during sex, so I sought out therapy to help with people-pleasing habits.

I was 25 years old when I realized that sex wasn't just about satisfying my partner. While this may sound shocking, it's unsurprising to me considering I spent my entire life catering to other people's needs instead of my own — all in the hopes that people would like me.

I used to be what the internet calls a "people pleaser." I had the oh-so-wonderful habit of saying "yes" when I really, really wanted to say "no." I often blurted out "I'm down for anything" when, in fact, I had very specific preferences.

It doesn't stop there, though. People pleasing wasn't just a day-to-day habit — it also showed up in the bedroom. For me, sex was about doing whatever I thought would satisfy my partner so they would like me. This tactic, however, led to some pretty serious sexual-performance anxiety. Once I worked through my core issues, I was able to alleviate my people-pleasing habits and find my confidence during sex.

As a people pleaser, being 'likable' was a huge part of my identity — especially during sex

I believed the easiest way to be liked was to be what everyone else wanted me to be. I needed to satisfy their desires and needs, even at the expense of my own.

Sex felt like the ultimate, most vulnerable test of this. I was terrified that if I couldn't satisfy my partners, they would no longer find me desirable or likable.

Do you know what happens when you view one event as the determining factor for if you're likable, lovable, or desirable? You get performance anxiety. I became so concerned with my partner's satisfaction and what they thought of me that I couldn't focus on the joys of sex.

I spent entire sexual encounters critiquing my technique, analyzing what my partner must be thinking of me, and trying to anticipate what they wanted.

The intrusive thoughts were brutal. My performance anxiety made it feel like there was an additional person in the room judging me. But that additional person was my own voice, in my own head, telling me all the ways I was failing to satisfy my partner and why they wouldn't like me because of it.

If it's not obvious, I didn't enjoy sex. I didn't orgasm, I wasn't present in my body, I had no idea what I did and didn't like, and I couldn't get wet. Of course, all of this only made me feel like I was failing even more.

I started to work on my people-pleasing tendencies first

As a people pleaser, it was second nature to think about everyone else's needs. I prioritized other people's needs to the extent that I couldn't even tell what my own needs and desires were. Eventually, this caused so much damage that I began working with a therapist.

My therapist taught me how to tune into what my body wanted in my everyday life. What did I want for breakfast? What project did I want to start my workday with?

These questions may sound basic, but they were very difficult for me to answer because I had spent most of my life prioritizing other people's needs and desires. So I started trying to focus on what would make me feel good right then when deciding what to eat or what movie to watch.

As I got better at this, I also started unraveling why I was a people pleaser. Ultimately, I believed I was unlovable. I worried that if I revealed my true self, people wouldn't like me. I also uncovered the gendered expectations people put on me to cater to other people's needs over my own.

Bit by bit, I broke my people-pleasing habit by noticing what I really wanted, believing I deserved it, and then asking for it.

When I stopped people-pleasing in my everyday life, my sexual performance anxiety slowly disappeared

I no longer fixated on what my partner thought of me because sex, like other parts of my life, wasn't about satisfying other people's needs and desires. It was more about my own experiences, desires, and pleasures.

For the first time, I knew how my body wanted to be touched. I could say what I did and didn't want. I no longer felt the need to fake an orgasm — because I was actually having them. Finally, I could focus on myself and not prioritize my partner's feelings.