People‑Pleasing and Self‑Identity in Daydream

Thematic Claim

Daydream traces Halle Jacobs’s journey from an identity submerged in other people’s needs to one where she writes her own story—literally and emotionally. The novel argues that self‑actualisation requires not merely doing things for oneself, but actively unlearning the belief that personal worth is earned through constant service. Halle’s people‑pleasing is not a personality quirk; it is a survival mechanism forged in a blended family where her emotional labour kept the peace. The narrative insists that reclaiming identity means risking others’ disappointment, tolerating guilt, and surrounding oneself with people who see the real self—not the convenient one.

Rooted in Family: The Making of a People‑Pleaser

Halle’s internalisation of the caretaker role begins long before the novel’s main timeline. She describes how her parents’ divorce and remarriages expanded her list of dependents: “For as long as I can remember, all I’ve heard is, ‘Oh, Halle won’t mind helping,’ and not once, ‘Halle, do you mind?’” (Chapter One). Her brother Grayson—the eldest—is never the family’s default crisis manager; instead, every logistical and emotional task “falls to” Halle. She becomes her stepsister Gianna’s unqualified tutor, her mother’s therapist, and the glue that holds holiday schedules together. This dynamic leaves her with no room to develop her own interests or friendships; she later admits that her only friends were Will’s friends, and she followed him “like a passenger in my own life.”

The novel does not frame Halle’s family as cruel—her mother sends care packages, her sisters love her—but the pattern of taking without asking creates a one‑sided rhythm. Halle’s people‑pleasing is so automatic that she doesn’t remember “opting in.” By the time Will breaks up with her, she is simultaneously exhausted and terrified of losing the last person she thought she belonged to, even though that relationship was built on her performing the ideal girlfriend while suppressing her own desires.

The Breakup as Catalyst

Will’s “I think we should break up” in Chapter One is both a blow and a revelation. In their conversation, he accuses her of living “in a fantasy world” and claims he’s been “patient” with her sexual boundaries—red flags that highlight how her acquiescence had been taken for granted. Yet the scene also triggers Halle’s first moment of clarity: “I’m tired of being a passenger in my own life. So if Will is going to spend junior year doing things for himself, so am I.”

This turning point is crucial because it’s not a sudden transformation. Halle’s vow to do things for herself—entering a writing competition, forgoing her ex’s hockey games—is immediately tested. She still hides the breakup from her family, lies about working over Thanksgiving, and helps Gianna with schoolwork even when she is swamped. The gap between her intention and her ingrained behaviour drives the middle of the story, illustrating that the people‑pleasing instinct doesn’t vanish with a single decision.

Henry’s Role in Practice, Not Rescue

Henry Turner does not fix Halle’s pattern; he models and invites a different way of relating. When Halle confesses that she can’t write her novel because “I haven’t lived,” Henry listens without offering to take over. In a quiet moment on her couch, he tells her, “You’re allowed to be assertive. You don’t always have to do what other people want. Except for now, open your laptop and write your essay. I’ll supervise” (Chapter Twelve). This small act—creating space for her to do her own work while he remains present—undoes the dynamic where Halle only existed as a helper.

Henry’s own neurodivergent‑coded traits (as discussed in Hannah Grace’s author letter) parallel Halle’s arc of self‑acceptance. He does not change to be loved; instead, he shows that one’s needs can be voiced without apology. When Halle later stands up to Will during their confrontation at the spring break house, she echoes Henry’s candour: “If you were my real friend, Will, you would have told me to make myself my number‑one priority” (Chapter Thirty‑Four). She has internalised the lesson that healthy relationships require honesty about one’s own boundaries, not endless accommodation.

Confronting the Mother‑Daughter Dynamic

The Thanksgiving/Christmas subplot marks the first time Halle intentionally sets a boundary with her mother. She lies about work being the reason she can’t come home—“It’s only one year”—and during the phone call her mother calls her decision “selfish.” When Halle finally admits the breakup and says, “I’m working over Christmas, as well,” her mother pivots to the platitude that “all couples go through rough patches” (Chapter Twenty). Halle does not backtrack; she lets the silence hang, an emotional muscle she is learning to flex.

This boundary‑setting escalates in the lead‑up to spring break. After a heartfelt conversation where her mother acknowledges how much she burdened Halle, Halle still chooses to skip part of the family trip to join Aurora’s girls’ getaway—her first ever. This decision is not framed as rebellion but as integration: she loves her sisters and misses them, so she sees them, but she also stakes a claim on her own time. The balance signals that self‑identity does not require severing family ties, merely refusing to be the sole anchor that steadies everyone else’s boat.

The Novel as Self‑Realisation

Halle’s writing competition entry is the concrete act of “doing something for myself.” The process is painful: she struggles with drafts, hits dead ends, and nearly deletes everything. What finally allows her to finish is not a bolt of inspiration but the accumulation of experiences Henry helped her seek—mock dates, raw conversations, moments of vulnerability. She edits her manuscript with a team of friends, and the submission itself is a private, solitary moment: “I finished a freaking book, and I did something for myself…. Putting myself first doesn’t mean that I have to do it alone” (Chapter Thirty‑Nine).

In the epilogue, the runner‑up prize and Grayson’s announcement of a funded summer writing course in New York—with Henry joining for art classes—transform Halle’s private win into a shared future. She quits her hotel job for a bookstore role with Cami, a move that symbolically trades service for passion. The epilogue’s closing remark, where Henry says he feels like he’s “living in his daydreams,” reinforces that both protagonists have left behind lives defined by obligation and loneliness.

Symbols That Anchor Self‑Identity

The H Necklace
During the confrontation with Will, Halle instinctively grips the H‑charm at her throat. When he accuses her of changing “for him,” she retorts, “I wanted to do those things for me. Nobody asked me to. Nobody made me.” The necklace—a gift she buys herself after the breakup—physicalises her reclaimed ownership of her body and choices.

Daisies
Daisies reappear in moments of softness and new beginnings, often associated with Halle’s blooming confidence. They symbolise the idea that self‑identity doesn’t need to be loud or aggressive; it can be quiet, persistent, and natural.

The Body‑Painted Canvas
The canvas from the night she and Henry first had sex is transformed into artwork that hangs above his bed. By Chapter Forty, it represents “love.” Turning a charged, intimate moment into a permanent piece of art mirrors Halle’s own transformation: she takes the messy, raw experiences of her life and turns them into a story she can proudly call her own.

Complexity and Contradiction

Halle’s arc does not pretend that people‑pleasing vanishes. She still helps Gianna with essays, still misses her sisters, and still feels guilt when she disappoints. The novel acknowledges that family systems do not reshape overnight. Even after her mother apologises, Halle navigates a trip where Will will be present, knowing she must tolerate his presence for the sake of her siblings. Yet the difference is agency: she no longer bends until she breaks.

The text also complicates the idea that self‑assertion is purely internal. Halle’s growth depends on a community—Aurora’s persistent friendship, Russ’s advice to Henry, and the late‑night editing circle—that refuses to let her shrink back. By linking her self‑identity to both individual courage and community support, Daydream avoids a simplistic “pull yourself up” message.

Study Questions and Answers

1. How does the breakup with Will expose the root of Halle’s people‑pleasing?
   Will’s accusation that Halle is a “coward” for staying in the relationship because of parental pressure forces her to articulate the truth: she has spent her whole life filling others’ expectations, and her loneliness made her cling to a relationship where she performed a version of herself rather than being genuine. The breakup reveals that her identity was constructed through service, not choice.

2. In what way does Henry’s presence, rather than his direct instruction, help Halle reclaim her self‑identity?
   Henry models boundaries without making Halle’s growth his project. He tells her she is “allowed to be assertive” and then physically creates a quiet space for her to write, but he does not take over her novel or solve her family problems. His calm acceptance of his own needs—taking time alone when overstimulated—gives her permission to meet her own needs without guilt.

3. How does the Thanksgiving phone call mark a turning point in Halle’s relationship with her mother?
   For the first time, Halle refuses to bend to her mother’s expectations: she announces she will not come home, and when her mother calls her “selfish,” she does not backtrack or over‑explain. She later admits the breakup, ending the secrecy that had been a symptom of her people‑pleasing. Although her mother initially deflects with “all couples go through rough patches,” the boundary holds, and later conversations become more reciprocal.

4. What does the body‑painted canvas symbolise in Halle’s identity journey?
   The canvas began as a sheet on which an intimate, vulnerable experience occurred. By the end of the novel, it hangs as a piece of art, explicitly linked to “love.” This transformation mirrors Halle’s own process: she stops hiding the messy, real parts of her life and instead claims them as integral to her story—a story she eventually turns into her novel.

5. Does Halle fully abandon her people‑pleasing tendencies by the epilogue? Why or why not, and what does the novel suggest about sustainable change?
   No, the novel presents a realistic arc. In the epilogue, Halle still works at a bookstore, still cares for Gigi, and still misses family events—but she does so from a place of choice rather than compulsion. She quits her hotel job, accepts her family’s funding for a writing course, and joins a girls’ trip, all without losing her caring nature. The novel suggests that sustainable change comes from integrating self‑care into a life that still includes others, not from erasing the impulse to help.

Conclusion

Daydream uses Halle’s romance and writing journey to dismantle the myth that self‑sacrifice is a virtue. Through incremental acts of boundary‑setting, honest friendships, and a creative project that demands she centre her own voice, Halle learns that her identity was never missing—it was simply waiting for her to make room. The novel ultimately frames people‑pleasing not as a character flaw but as a learned behaviour that can be unlearned, with patience, support, and a willingness to finally put one’s own name at the top of the priority list.