Some people make you feel taller.

And some people make you feel like you’re hunched over in your own life—snappier, smaller, more defensive than you recognize.

I’ve learned (the long way) that it’s not just what someone does to you, it’s who you become around them. If the “you” that shows up near a certain person is the version you like least, pay attention.

That person might be bringing out the worst in you.

I won’t pretend to have it all figured out, but in six-plus decades—husband, dad, now granddad who gets grass stains playing tag with the little ones—I’ve noticed eight reliable tells.

If these behaviors pop up mostly around one specific person, that’s data. Not a courtroom verdict, maybe, but a strong nudge to change the dance.

Here are the eight signs and what you can do about each.

1) You hear your voice get sharper—and you don’t like how you sound

With healthy people, your voice stays round. With the wrong person, your sentences get edged. You interrupt. You talk at instead of with. You catch yourself saying things you’ll want to walk back the minute you get home.

Why it happens: your nervous system has learned you’re not safe to be soft around them. So it armors up—volume, sarcasm, speed.

What helps: name it in the room without theatrics. “I can hear myself getting prickly. I care about this, but I don’t want to argue. Let’s pause.” If they steamroll right past that boundary, you’ve learned something more important than “who wins” this round.

Tiny experiment: practice a slower first sentence. “Here’s what I’m trying to say,” or “I want to get this right.” Your tone shapes theirs more than you think.

2) You rehearse conversations in your head before (and after) every interaction

You know that mental dress rehearsal where you write both sides of the script?

If you’re doing it constantly for one person—practicing comebacks in the shower, refighting the same meeting while you mow the lawn—that’s not preparation; that’s anxiety with a clipboard.

Why it happens: unpredictability. You’ve been blindsided enough that your brain tries to control the future by over-planning the past.

What helps: set a time box for pre-brief and debrief. Ten minutes before, jot bullet points you want to hit. Ten minutes after, write the two things you’ll carry forward and throw the rest away. I keep an index card just for this. The goal isn’t the perfect script; it’s limits around the rumination.

I had a colleague years ago who could turn any meeting into a maze. I started leaving myself a voicemail on the walk in: “Three points, then exit.” It felt silly. It worked. The rehearsals quieted because I gave my brain a plan with an end.

3) You say “sorry” like a comma

You apologize for existing. “Sorry, quick question.” “Sorry for following up.” “Sorry, I can’t do Friday.” Around this person, you shrink preemptively, as if taking up less space might keep the peace.

Why it happens: you’ve been trained (by them or by the dynamic) to expect your needs will be treated as a burden.

What helps: swap “sorry” for “thanks” or for a clean boundary. “Thanks for your patience.” “I’m not available Friday; I can do Tuesday at 2.” If they bristle at clarity, that’s a sign—not that you were wrong to be clear, but that the relationship demanded your smallness.

Practice line: “No apology needed here,” said to yourself first.

4) You become the least generous version of yourself

The worst-in-you person makes you scorekeep. You notice every flaw, catalog every slight. You withhold the benefit of the doubt you easily give others. You don’t like this version of you—and yet there you are, adding to the invisible ledger while rinsing dishes.

Why it happens: resentment plus helplessness. When we don’t feel we can make a dent in a pattern, we try to stay “ahead” emotionally by devaluing the other person.

What helps: elevate your standards for yourself, not for them. “I’m going to be accurate and fair even when I’m frustrated.” Then do two concrete things: (1) identify one behavior you can change (showing up five minutes early, communicating once instead of five nudges), and (2) take your dignity out of the ledger. Shocking but true: you can be generous without being a doormat.

5) You leave interactions buzzing—wired, depleted, or both

A good conversation gives energy or, at minimum, leaves you neutral. With this person, your body hums like a cheap neon sign. Jaw tight. Shoulders up. Sleep off. You find yourself raiding the pantry at 10 p.m. or staring at the ceiling re-litigating a throwaway line.

Why it happens: your stress response is doing push-ups. Around some people, our nervous system picks “fight or flee” before our better angels can vote.

What helps: intervene with your physiology before you try psychology. On your way out of the room (or the Zoom), do 2–3 minutes of downshifting: in for a count of 4, out for 6; or a brisk five-minute walk outside; or cold water on your wrists. Then decide what, if anything, needs to be addressed. Don’t problem-solve while flooded.

Rule I stole from my doctor: “No serious emails inside 90 minutes of a triggering conversation.” It has saved me from writing novels I’d regret.

6) You become sneaky with yourself

You say “It’s not a big deal” while your habits tell on you—procrastinating on their texts, editing your words mid-sentence, venting to everyone but them.

You start avoiding places where you’ll run into them or crafting stories that make your behavior look noble when you know it’s just fear in a nicer jacket.

Why it happens: values conflict. Who you want to be (direct, kind, honest) clashes with who you think you have to be around them (careful, evasive, over-managed).

What helps: align one small action with your preferred identity. If you value directness, be direct once. If you value kindness, say the kind thing even if the conversation is tense. If you value honesty, tell yourself the unvarnished truth: “I’m avoiding this,” or “I’m scared of their reaction.” Clarity is a lever.

I’m the first to admit I don’t know everything, but I know this: small acts of integrity in hard rooms are calories for your self-respect.

7) You judge the people you love more harshly after seeing this person

Pay attention to the “spill.” You get home from lunch with them and suddenly your partner, kid, or neighbor isn’t measuring up.

You carry the harshness forward like a to-go box. It’s not that this person made you unkind; it’s that the tone of the interaction infected your next room.

Why it happens: emotional contagion. We sync to the energy we’re around, especially if we feel defensive. Then we export it.

What helps: build a decompression ritual between rooms. Car quiet for two minutes. A walk around the block before you go inside. A sticky note on the steering wheel that says, “Don’t bring them in here.” Sound corny? Try it. Your home (or next meeting) deserves the best version of you, not the echo of someone else.

8) You forget your own progress

Around the worst-in-you person, you regress. Old habits return—the teenager who shuts down, the pleaser who over-explains, the debater who has to win on a technicality.

Months of therapy or hard-won growth can feel thin as paper with them.

Why it happens: context cues. Our bodies remember the dance, especially with family or long histories. Their first glare, your first flinch—suddenly you’re back in a room from 1997.

What helps: anchor to a visible reminder of present-you. I wear a simple ring my granddaughter gave me (a plastic “gem” shaped like a star). When I’m tempted to argue like twentysomething Farley, I thumb that silly ring and think, “I’m Pop-Pop now. I choose grown-up.” Find your talisman—a coin, a bracelet, a note in your pocket—and appoint it as your interruption.

How to tell if it’s “them,” “you,” or the mix

• Pattern vs. one-off: if seven different people spark the same worst-in-you behaviors, look at your side first. If it’s one person, that’s instructive.

• Other rooms test: do you like yourself in other rooms? If yes, don’t let this one context define your character.

• Repair lane: can you name the pattern and get a collaborative response? “We get sharp with each other—can we try X?” If repair is impossible, boundaries are policy, not punishment.

What to do next (without turning your life into a courtroom)

1. Name the specific behavior, not the vibe. “I get defensive and interrupt you,” is actionable. “You make me crazy,” isn’t.

2. Set one clear boundary. “I’m happy to discuss budget, not at 10 p.m.” Or, “If we start calling names, I’m ending the conversation.”

3. Reduce exposure where you can. Fewer unsupervised hours, more group settings, schedule shorter windows.

4. Raise structure. Agendas for meetings, written follow-ups, start/stop times. Structure is kindness when vibes are messy.

5. Choose your medium wisely. Some people are easier in writing; others in person. Use the channel that keeps the best you present.

6. Invest where you’re your best. After difficult interactions, deliberately text or see someone who expands you. Recalibrate on purpose.

Scripts you can steal (plain, kind, firm)

• Tone check: “I’m hearing my voice get sharp. I care about this—can we take five and restart?”

• Boundary: “I won’t discuss that while you’re yelling. Happy to talk at 3 when we’re both calmer.”

• Refusal without rage: “That doesn’t work for me. Here’s what does.”

• Exit: “I’m going to step away now. We can pick this up tomorrow.”

• Meta-ask: “I want to like who I am around you. What would help us both stay respectful?”

Two small scenes that taught me more than any book

1) The family dinner pivot.
A relative and I used to spar like it was a sport. One Thanksgiving I tried a new move: I sat next to him, not across. When a hot topic landed, I put my hand flat on the table and said, “I’m going to listen for two minutes, then I’ll ask one question.” That two-minute timer (on my watch, quietly) changed both our tones. Proximity helps; so does a rule you can point to.

2) The co-worker whose emails made me clench my jaw.
I noticed I was writing novels back—defensive, over-explained, resentful. I made a template: three sentences max, one bullet list if needed, and anything potentially spicy I saved as a draft for an hour. Half the time, I deleted the spice. Within a month, the heat in our thread dropped because I stopped feeding it.

A quick self-check (be honest, not cruel)

• Do I like who I am around this person?

• Do I leave interactions feeling smaller or steadier?

• Do I behave in ways I don’t elsewhere (interrupting, apologizing, scorekeeping)?

• Have my attempts at repair been met halfway?

• What boundary would present-me feel proud of keeping?

If your answers point to “they bring out my worst,” you don’t need to launch a crusade. You need a plan. Less access to the parts of you you’re trying to outgrow; more access to people and places that make your better habits easy.

A word of grace (for them and for you)

Sometimes people bring out our worst because they’re in a bad season.

Sometimes because we’ve trained each other into a cartoon and forgot the human underneath.

And sometimes because the mix simply doesn’t work. You don’t have to demonize anyone to decide differently.

Distance can be an act of respect—for your future behavior and theirs.

The bottom line

You’ll know someone brings out the worst in you if, around them, your voice gets sharp, you rehearse endlessly, you apologize for breathing, you start scorekeeping, your body buzzes after every interaction, you get sneaky with yourself, the harshness spills onto people you love, and your old habits yank you back.

Notice it. Name it. Set one clean boundary. Reduce exposure. Build decompression rituals. Then spend more of your precious hours in rooms where you like who you are—because that’s not selfish; that’s stewardship.