Confessions of a Pizza Hater: My Journey Through People-Pleasing and Authenticity

I don't like pizza. There, I said it.

I really don't like pizza. It stresses me out when I discover that my lunch or dinner will be only pizza. It's even worse when an entire evening is organized around pizza—when you invite people to a place and then order pizza, and everyone is delighted except me. I'm sitting there, forcing a smile while inwardly cringing.

The Italian Paradox

The memory that haunts me most happened in Italy, of all places—the birthplace of pizza, a culinary shrine. Twice we went out for dinner, driving to what everyone assured me was "a nice place." And what was this nice place serving? Pizza, of course. Both times, I said yes, nurturing the delusional hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Maybe I would finally understand what everyone else seems to love about pizza.

But at the end of each meal, I felt the same regret washing over me—why didn't I just say no?

The philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre wrote about "bad faith," describing how we sometimes deny our own freedom and responsibility, acting as if we have no choice when, in fact, we do. My pizza acquiescence was a perfect example of Sartrean bad faith—pretending I had no choice but to eat something I disliked.

The Anatomy of My Pizza Aversion

People often find my dislike for pizza puzzling. After all, it's universally beloved, transcending cultural boundaries. Even those who consider it "junk food" still crave it—they just try to limit their consumption.

My issue with pizza is specific and perhaps irrational: it's the dough, the white flour base that dominates the experience. When I eat pizza, all I taste is bread with a hint of salt. For me, the ideal food should have a balanced ratio between base and toppings. Pizza fails this test spectacularly—the dough always overwhelms the sauce, cheese, and toppings.

Food psychologist Paul Rozin's research on food aversions suggests that our reactions to certain foods are often tied to both sensory properties (taste, texture, smell) and cognitive associations. My aversion isn't just about taste—it's about the perceived imbalance, the dominance of a component I find bland and uninteresting.

The Hidden Cost of Yes

Why, then, do I repeatedly say yes to pizza outings when I know I'll regret it? This question opens the door to something much deeper than food preferences—it reveals the powerful psychology of social conformity and people-pleasing.

Social psychologist Solomon Asch demonstrated in his famous conformity experiments that many people will deny their own perceptions to align with a group. While he was studying visual judgments, the same principle applies to something as seemingly trivial as food preferences.

When I reflect on why I didn't simply say, "I don't like pizza," two reasons emerge:

1. The desire to fit in. There's something primal about sharing food with others—breaking bread together (literally, in the case of pizza) is one of humanity's oldest social bonding rituals. Saying no feels like rejecting not just the food, but the social connection itself.

2. The compulsion to please others. I wanted to be liked, to be seen as easy-going and accommodating. "I eat whatever," I would tell myself, as if flexibility about food was some badge of character virtue.

But this wasn't flexibility—it was self-erasure disguised as agreeableness.

The Aftermath of Inauthenticity

The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard observed that "the most common form of despair is not being who you truly are." There's a peculiar form of grief that comes not from losing others, but from betraying yourself to keep them.

This grief hits differently than the sadness of a breakup or the end of a friendship. It arrives later, often after the relationship has ended, when you're no longer trying to please those people. Suddenly, you're confronted with the memory of your own inauthenticity, and it feels pathetic.

"Why did I put myself in that situation?" I ask myself. "Why couldn't I just order the tomato pasta and enjoy my meal?" The simple act of advocating for my own preference seems, in retrospect, like it should have been so easy.

Psychologist Carl Rogers noted that this gap between our "real self" and our "ideal self" (or in this case, our "social self") is a major source of psychological distress. When we consistently act in ways that contradict our genuine preferences and feelings, we create internal discord that eventually demands resolution.

The Strange Grief of Self-Betrayal

What fascinates me is how this grief emerges in the aftermath of relationships. When we're in the midst of people-pleasing, we rarely recognize the cost. It's only later, when those relationships change or end, that we fully comprehend what we've sacrificed.

This retrospective clarity brings a unique form of regret—not for the relationship's end, but for our own complicity in denying our authentic selves. We mourn not just the person we've lost, but the self we abandoned in the process of trying to keep them.

Psychiatrist Irvin Yalom calls this "existential guilt"—the guilt that comes not from violating some external moral code, but from failing to live according to our own authentic potential and choices.

A Declaration of Authenticity

So here I am, writing this blog as a reminder to myself and a declaration to the world: I really don't like pizza—at least not the kind served in restaurants and delivery boxes.

There's an important caveat, though. If we're talking about reimagined pizza with alternative bases—chickpea crust, sweet potato, or regular potato—I'm enthusiastically on board. I love making my own pizza at home, controlling the ingredients and proportions. I can happily devour a homemade pizza crafted to my specifications.

The distinction matters: it's not pizza as a concept I object to, but the standard commercial version with its overwhelming, underwhelming dough.

Beyond Pizza: The Broader Lesson

This isn't really about pizza, of course. It's about the small daily compromises we make, believing they're insignificant, only to realize later that they form a pattern of self-betrayal that exacts a real psychological toll.

Psychologist Brené Brown's research on vulnerability suggests that authentic self-expression, even when it risks rejection, ultimately leads to deeper connections than those built on people-pleasing.

The next time someone suggests pizza, I'll remember this commitment to myself. I'll politely decline and suggest an alternative, or simply order something different for myself. It might create a moment of social awkwardness, but that discomfort is fleeting compared to the lasting regret of denying my own experience.

A Philosophical Slice

The ancient Stoic philosopher Epictetus said, "Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens." I can't control what foods others enjoy or what restaurants they choose, but I can control my response—whether I speak my truth or swallow it along with food I don't enjoy.

So perhaps my pizza aversion has served a purpose after all. It's become a small but meaningful testing ground for a much larger life question: Am I willing to be authentically myself, even when it would be easier to conform? Am I brave enough to risk disapproval by honoring my own experience?

The answer, like the perfect non-pizza dinner, is still in the making. But at least now I'm asking the right questions—and that's a start.