Look, first of all — the audacity of a personality quiz telling you that YOU'RE the red flag? Please. You've been dealing with other people's mediocre energy your entire life, and NOW we're supposed to sit here and discuss how you maybe, possibly, occasionally make things about yourself? The irony is not lost on you. It might be lost on everyone else, but you got it immediately, because of course you did.
Welcome to Main Character Syndrome, population: you, and everyone else is a background extra with no speaking lines.
Here's what's actually going on. Being "the main character" isn't just a TikTok trend where you walk in slow motion with your AirPods in. It's a deeply rooted psychological pattern where your internal narrative consistently positions you at the center of every interaction, every conflict, every story. Not because you're selfish — that's too simple. But because at some point, you learned that the only way to feel seen was to demand the spotlight.
Psychologically, this often connects to what researchers call narcissistic vulnerability — which, before you get defensive, is NOT the same as being a narcissist. Narcissistic vulnerability is a pattern where someone's self-worth is heavily dependent on external validation. You need people to find you interesting, funny, impressive, or at the very least, unforgettable. And when that validation doesn't come automatically? You orchestrate it.
Think about how you tell stories. When something happens to someone else, how long before you relate it back to something that happened to you? When a friend is going through a breakup, how many minutes until the conversation pivots to your relationship experiences? When someone else gets attention — positive or negative — what happens in your chest?
That tightness you feel? That's the red flag activating.
The thing about main character energy is that it's exhausting — and not just for other people. Maintaining a narrative where you're always the most interesting, most wronged, most resilient, most complicated person in the room is a full-time job with no benefits. You can't just have a bad day. You have to have the WORST day. You can't just be sad. You have to be tragically, beautifully, cinematically devastated.
This pattern often develops in environments where attention was scarce or competitive. Maybe you grew up with siblings who got more attention. Maybe your emotional needs were only acknowledged when they were dramatic enough to break through the noise. Maybe you learned that being ordinary meant being invisible, and invisible meant being unloved.
So you became extraordinary. At all costs.
The cost, unfortunately, is other people's willingness to be honest with you. When every interaction is filtered through the lens of "how does this affect my story," people stop bringing you their real stuff. They give you the curated version because they know the uncurated version will somehow become about you. And over time, you end up surrounded by people who perform connection rather than actually building it with you.
Your growth path is uncomfortable but straightforward: practice being a supporting character. Not all the time. Not forever. But deliberately, intentionally, practice sitting in someone else's moment without making it yours. Listen to a friend's story and don't add yours. Celebrate someone's win without qualifying it. Be present in someone else's narrative without needing a speaking role.
The plot twist you didn't see coming? The most magnetic people aren't the ones who demand the spotlight. They're the ones who make OTHER people feel like the main character. That's the flex you haven't unlocked yet. And when you do? Your story actually gets better.