The ‘Nice Guy’ vs the ‘Baddie’: Why We’re All Tired of Each Other
“One thinks kindness is a curse. The other thinks softness is weakness. They’re both exhausted—and they’re both right.”
The Archetype Fatigue
Before we get into the emotional wreckage, let’s define our characters—and the cultural pressure cooker that created them.
The Nice Guy isn’t just a decent man—he’s a man who believes that niceness should guarantee romantic reward. He operates on a covert contract: ‘If I’m kind, respectful, and not like those other guys, I deserve to be chosen.’ But when he isn’t? He feels betrayed. His niceness becomes bitterness. He resents the rejection not because it hurts, but because he thinks it breaks the contract.
“For most of my life, I thought being the ‘nice guy’ was the way to win people over. Especially with girls. I thought if I was polite, agreeable, always there when needed, eventually someone would choose me.”
He gets friend-zoned. Ghosted. Ignored. Girls talk to him about the guys they’re dating, while he silently hopes they’ll “see” him one day. But they never do.
And honestly? He’s not always kind. He’s just afraid. Afraid to ask for what he wants. Afraid of rejection. So he hides behind manners and martyrdom. He thinks being liked is safer than being honest.
The change comes when he realises this:
Being a good person is essential. But being a pushover isn’t the same thing. Confidence isn’t being a jerk, it’s knowing who you are and not apologising for it.”
When he stops bending to be liked and starts standing to be respected, everything changes. That’s when he’s no longer the ‘Nice Guy.’ He’s just a real one.
Now let’s talk about the Bad Bitch or as the internet has rebranded her: the Baddie.
The Baddie isn’t just confident, she’s curated. She’s the woman you post, not propose to. The one who’s mastered her face card, her waist-to-hip ratio, and her personal brand. She’s not just beautiful, she’s built a presence. But underneath? She’s often just tired of carrying her life, of holding her family together, of never being allowed to fall apart.
There’s a viral video that sums it up:
“Latto is a baddie. Tyla is a beautiful woman.”
Tyla -The beautiful woman men try to protect
Latto - The woman men flaunt
Baddies get posted. Beautiful women get protected. One is a trophy. The other, a treasure. A trophy is what you show off. A treasure is what you protect. The Baddie is expected to shine, but is rarely held. And that expectation is exhausting.
Baddies like Razor, Cat, Lo, Tommie, Stunna—they’re confident, driven, and often misread. The problem isn’t their boldness—it’s that culture rewards the look but not the soul. Baddies get idolised for their grind, but rarely held for their grief. And in influencer culture? Being a Baddie often means looking unbothered while bleeding emotionally off-camera.
“A baddie is supposed to be beautiful, strong, and independent—but Zeus Network turned that into clout-chasing chaos. It used to mean pride. Now it just means performance.”
Rick Ross - The boss is known to be shallow
Michael B Jordan has a reputation for being a respectable guy
And for men, the opposite of the Baddie fantasy is being labelled a Trick—someone who leads with money and still doesn’t get respect. A Trick is shallow, transactional. He’s seen as weak for wanting a connection. Meanwhile, Good Guys—those with values, standards, and clarity—are either overlooked or asked to prove themselves endlessly.
This isn’t about looks, money, or race. It’s about the roles we’re assigned and the exhaustion that comes with performing them.
What unites both the Nice Guy and the Baddie is this: they’re playing roles they were handed. Scripts they didn’t write. They think they need to wear just to be seen.
And neither emerged in a vacuum. The red pill community pours fuel on the fire, pitting the Nice Guy against women who “only want bad boys,” while encouraging hypermasculine control. Meanwhile, Instagram empowerment gurus fuel the Baddie narrative with luxury feminism that says ‘never settle’ but quietly implies ‘never soften.’
Pop culture reinforces it. Think Curtis from Love Island—a textbook Nice Guy who made every girl a cup of tea each morning. Sweet. Consistent. Thoughtful. And yet… publicly mocked. Treated as weak. Used to prove that kindness, without edge, is disposable.
So they armour up. And it’s that armour—not the individual—that love can’t reach.
She said, “He’s lovely… but I’m bored.”
He said, “She’s incredible… but she doesn’t trust anyone.”
This is the quiet grief beneath modern dating: two people with guard dogs for hearts and scripts for tongues. Both want softness. Both are performing safety. And both were utterly exhausted.
Are you being authentic… or just strategic with your suffering?
Digital Proof & Emotional Echo Chambers
The internet doesn’t just reflect our beliefs, it calcifies them. It turns insecurity into a strategy, and a strategy into an identity. We no longer learn about love from connection; we know it from content.
Platforms reward polarity. What gets the most views? Men performing dominance and women performing detachment. It’s a carousel of carefully curated wounds: stitch a rejection, duet a heartbreak, mock vulnerability, and repost the red flag.
What was once private grief becomes a public spectacle and proof. Proof that ‘nice guys finish last.’ Proof that women only want six-figure men. Proof that ‘baddies’ are unapproachable. Proof that vulnerability is a weakness. And soon enough, those beliefs become part of the culture.
This is where digital proof becomes a matter of emotional doctrine.
He watches creators like King68TheGreat collect numbers without saying a word. She watches ‘divine feminine coaches’ selling £300 courses on how to ‘receive’ without ever asking. The conclusion is the same: presentation matters more than connection. And eventually, that becomes doctrine.
And layered inside this echo chamber is another paradox: “King treatment” vs. “Princess treatment.”
Why princess? Why not Queen? Or at the very least, Prince? The naming isn’t accidental; it reveals hierarchy. King treatment implies leadership, reverence, and sovereignty. Princess treatment implies softness, indulgence… but not power.
It’s not about mutual honouring. It’s about bargaining.
Men want to be ‘poured into,’ to feel nurtured, needed, and emotionally safe. Women want care, attunement, and not to have to spell out their needs to inattentive men. Both want to be seen. But these phrases, “King treatment,” “Princess treatment”, become coded pleas for equality that still cling to performance.
She wants care without auditioning for it.
He wants devotion without feeling disposable.
But the problem isn’t who deserves what. It’s why everyone feels they have to earn what should be standard.
Because maybe the truth is this: neither of you is tired of each other. You’re just tired of not being seen for who you are underneath it all.
Behind the Mask: What They Really Want
The Nice Guy doesn’t want to be ignored.
He wants to be seen. Not as an option—but as someone safe, steady, and still desired.
The Baddie doesn’t want to dominate.
She wants to trust. To relax into care without compromising identity.
But neither wants to say it first.
Modern dating has made vulnerability a liability.
He’s afraid to lead with desire—because he’s been laughed at.
She’s afraid to lead with softness—because she’s been punished for it.
So they perform.
He performs with confidence.
She shows no interest.
And they both keep getting hurt by the masks they think protect them.
What’s being mistaken for power is often pain.
What looks like control is often fear dressed up in designer clothes.
And in therapy? These aren’t archetypes. They’re clients. Exhausted ones.
Neurodivergent Misfits in a Neurotypical Market
If dating is theatre, then neurodivergent people keep missing the casting call—or worse, they show up and realise the script was never written with them in mind.
For many ND folks, dating isn’t just socially draining—it’s spiritually disorienting. The rituals of attraction are built on subtle cues and emotional intuition. But what happens when you’re wired for directness and clarity, not performance?
One autistic man put it like this:
“Neurotypical people want you to know what to do instinctively, like the romance music is going to swell from a loudspeaker behind you both or something.”
Another added:
“I only click with other autistic people. We’re not there to perform. We’re there to connect. No small talk. No scripts. Just presence.”
And for ND women? The fatigue runs deeper.
Many report being expected to provide emotional labour and code-switching.
One shared:
“Some ND men expected praise just for acknowledging their diagnosis. But they wouldn’t extend the same grace to mine.”
What’s missing isn’t chemistry, it’s clarity.
In a world where connection is curated, neurodivergent honesty becomes radical.
Maybe they weren’t broken—just honest in a world that punishes clarity.
Therapy Interventions
Nice Guy clients come in with moral fatigue.
“I’ve done everything right. Why does it feel like I’m still invisible?”
Baddie clients come in with spiritual exhaustion.
“I’ve built a life people envy—but I don’t know who I am without the mask.”
Therapy is not there to make them desirable.
It’s there to help them stop auditioning for love.
For the Nice Guy:
CBT: What belief tells you kindness should be rewarded?
Schema Therapy: When did you learn love had to be earned?
ACT: What would your life look like if you stopped chasing validation and started living by your own values?
Psychodynamic: Who are you still trying to impress? Whose love are you reenacting?
CFT: What if the version of you that feels unworthy is just a younger part waiting for compassion?
For the Baddie:
IFS: Can you sit with the part of you that thinks softness is weakness?
DBT: Can you hold both truths—independence and desire—without erasing either?
Narrative Therapy: Who wrote the story that says strength means silence? What happens if you rewrite it?
Humanistic Therapy: What would you stop chasing if you already believed you were enough?
Healing isn’t about becoming someone better. It’s about finally being someone honest.
Exit the Role, Enter the Room
You don’t have to be the saviour or the savage.
You don’t have to be the trophy or the Trick.
You can be tired of performing, and still worthy of love.
That’s the real revolution.
A connection where neither of you is performing a role,
where attraction is not aesthetic theatre,
And love is not a contract disguised as chemistry.
Because the truth is this:
You’re not tired of dating.
You’re tired of having to become someone else just to be loved.
