It was supposed to be a girls’ night — easy, light, the kind of night where you wear soft clothes and talk about life over wine.
But somewhere between the snacks and the second glass, I said something real. Something honest. I didn’t raise my voice or cry; I wasn’t unravelling — just letting a quiet truth rise to the surface because that’s how it moves through me sometimes. Gently. Naturally.
And I felt it shift, the way one of them stared down into her glass like it suddenly had all the answers, while the other let out a sigh, the kind laced with subtle judgment, before saying, “You think too much. You feel too much. Just let it go.”
And I did what I’ve learned to do in rooms that can’t meet me — I laughed it off, changed the subject, and kept my truth in silence instead. But I remember sitting in my car afterward, hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly, trying to drive home while my heartbeat echoed in the quiet.
I didn’t say it out loud then, but I say it now: I wasn’t too much. I was just in a room where emotional depth felt like a threat instead of a gift.
There was another moment — different day, different person - where I simply said I needed a bit of space. Not because I was angry, not because I wanted to punish anyone. Just because I felt overstimulated. I needed quiet, stillness, the grace to be alone with myself for a little while without pressure to perform and be okay.
And the response?
“You’re always so intense. It’s not that deep.”
And I remember thinking — really? That’s what you took from this? That I’m being dramatic just because I didn’t want to perform being “fine”?
I wasn’t making a scene. I was simply honoring what my body was whispering to me in that moment.
But that’s the thing — people who don’t understand nervous systems, emotions, or boundaries will always read presence as provocation.
What they’re really saying, underneath the labels and eye rolls, is: I only know how to connect with you if you keep pretending you’re fine.
And the moment you do something different—like take a breath, ask a question, step away from a dynamic that feels off, you break an unspoken script they’ve been clinging to. For some, that interruption feels like rejection. But really, it’s just the truth. And truth, when it disrupts comfort, gets mislabeled as conflict.
That’s often the quiet crossroads where relationships begin to stall — not because something explosive happened, but because growth stepped into the room. And growth isn’t soft or silent. It interrupts the pattern. It asks for deeper breath, slower pace, more honesty. It stretches the space between people and reveals whether there’s room to meet in the middle… or not.
The truth is, most people aren’t ready for growth. They want the easy version of you — the one who’s agreeable and uncomplicated, who keeps things light and pleasant, who doesn’t ask for more or challenge the emotional status quo.
They want the version of you that nods, smiles, laughs at the right time, and never disrupts the rhythm they’ve come to rely on.
But the moment you stop offering that version — the moment you take a step back, ask a harder question, or simply show up as your full self, you’ll feel the shift.
You’ll hear it in their silence. You’ll notice it in the way invitations taper off. You’ll sense it in how the story about you changes, until suddenly, you’re no longer “just going through something,” and now labelled as “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” and “too much.”
But here’s what I know now: honoring your needs isn’t a betrayal. It’s a return. Taking space to breathe isn’t rejection — it’s self-respect. Asking real questions isn’t drama, it’s a doorway to truth. And emotional depth? It’s not dangerous — unless shallow waters are all someone’s ever known.
So if someone tells me I’m too much, I don’t shrink anymore. Because what they’re really saying is that they’ve never seen someone live unfiltered, and it unsettles them. What they’re really saying is: You remind me of everything I’ve buried in myself.
And that? That’s not mine to carry.
