Being “Too Much” and Finally Owning It

I’ve been called too much for as long as I could remember. It has followed me like a shadow, showing up in classrooms, relationships, friendships, even in quiet moments where no one said the words out loud, but I could feel the judgment hanging heavy in the air. I was too talkative, too opinionated, too sensitive, too affectionate, too bold. My laugh was too loud, my curiosity too invasive, my emotions too visible.

The truth is, i believed it. I carried “too much” like it was a diagnosis, something I had to manage carefully, always lowering my volume, softening my expression, tucking pieces of myself away before anyone could notice them sticking out. It felt like survival, like the only way I could be accepted was by trimming myself down into a smaller, more tolerable version.

I remember being a teenager and holding back tears because I didn’t want to be called dramatic. I remember laughing at a whisper because someone once told me I sounded like I was trying too hard. I remember dimming my joy over little things because people rolled their eyes when I got excited. Even in relationships, I’d shrink myself. I’d love in quieter, more measured doses because my full affection was “clingy.” I’d bite my tongue when I wanted to speak because honesty was “too blunt.” I became skilled at erasing myself in real time, thinking this was what it meant to be lovable.

The hardest part wasn’t that people said it — it was that I started to believe they were right. I thought, maybe if I could just learn to take up less space, to soften my edges, to contain my emotions, I’d finally fit. And maybe fitting would feel like peace.

But it never did.

Living half-sized is exhausting. It’s like walking into a room and only letting half your body through the door. Eventually, I realized the quiet ache I felt all the time wasn’t sadness for what others thought of me — it was grief for what I had done to myself. I was mourning the parts I’d buried alive just to be digestible.

Owning my “too muchness” didn’t come from one big epiphany. It started with small rebellions. The first time I cried in front of someone without rushing to apologize. The first time I said exactly what I felt, even though my voice shook. The first time I walked into a room in an outfit that made me feel powerful instead of safe. The first time I didn’t shrink my love out of fear that it was too overwhelming. Those moments cracked something open.

I began to notice that the people who called me “too much” were usually the ones who couldn’t meet me where I was. My emotions weren’t too big — they just made them uncomfortable. My honesty wasn’t too harsh — it only sounded sharp to ears that preferred silence. My laughter wasn’t too loud — it only echoed louder against walls where joy wasn’t welcome.

That realization changed everything.

Because what if “too much” was never the problem? What if the problem was the rooms I kept trying to fit into?

The more I leaned into myself, the more I saw that my intensity wasn’t a flaw; it was my essence. My sensitivity allows me to feel deeply, to connect with people in ways surface-level conversations never could. My boldness has carried me through experiences I would have been too afraid to try if I were quieter. My love — wild, consuming, unapologetic — has the power to heal, to ignite, to remind people what intimacy really feels like.

I won’t lie – it’s still hard sometimes. That old instinct to shrink shows up like muscle memory. I catch myself wanting to swallow my opinions, to laugh a little softer, to step back so others can step forward. And then I remind myself: my space is mine to take. I don’t need to shrink so others can breathe easier. I don’t need to apologize for existing fully.

Now, when I think about being “too much,” I see it as a kind of crown I get to wear. Too emotional? Yes — because I feel the world in high definition. Too bold? Yes — because I’ve learned that bravery tastes sweeter than regret. Too sensitive? Yes — because numbness has never built a connection worth keeping. Too much love? Absolutely — because I refuse to love halfway.

I used to think that if I stopped shrinking, people would leave. Some did. But the ones who stayed, the ones who arrived after I stopped apologizing — they didn’t just tolerate my “too muchness,” they cherished it. They saw it as the very thing that made me beautiful, magnetic, alive.

So when I hear it now — you’re too much — I smile. I know it doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to the person saying it, to their limits, their fears, their inability to hold what I have to offer. And that’s okay. Not everyone will have the capacity. Not everyone is meant to.

The truth is, I’m not too much. I’m just not for everyone. And finally, I’m done trying to be.

I’m learning to live as if I were never accused of excess. To move through rooms with my whole presence in tact, to love with both arms open, to speak in full sentences without editing myself down into half-truths. I don’t need to be small to be loved. I don’t need to be quieter to be heard. I don’t need to dilute myself into palatable sips when I was made to overflow.

Being “too much” is my freedom now. It’s my rebellion, my offering, my truth. It’s the way I know I’m alive — and the way I make sure I never disappear into the shadows again.

So yes, I am too much. Too much laughter, too much tenderness, too much fire, too much love. And finally, I am owning it.