Too Much

There’s a quiet kind of hurt that comes from being told you’re “too much.”

Not all at once—but over time.
In small comments. In subtle reactions. In the way people pull back when you show up fully.

This episode is a gentle reflection on what it means to carry depth in a world that doesn’t always know how to hold it.

It’s about unlearning the idea that you need to be less…
and remembering that your sensitivity, your intensity, your honesty—

are not flaws.

They’re who you are.

Transcript

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You ever notice how people say they love sensitive people? They love the ones who feel deeply, the ones who care too much, the ones who cry at things other people don't even notice. They love it until it's real, until it's inconvenient, until it lasts too long, until your grief doesn't wrap itself up neatly so they can go back to being comfortable. Here's the truth, no one says out loud. People don't actually love emotional people. They love the idea of them. They love empathy when it's aesthetic, when it sounds good in a caption, when it makes them look like good people for being around it. But when you're the one still crying, weeks, months, years later, you're not poetic anymore. You're a problem. I know this because I became the crybaby. That's the label, right? The one who feels too much, the one who doesn't move on fast enough, the one people slowly stop checking in on because it's easier to disappear than to sit in something they can't fix. This year didn't just hurt, it's stacked. One loss into another into another. Not the kind of grief, not the kind of grief people rally around, the kind they quietly step away from. Because it doesn't end, it doesn't take breaks, it doesn't ask permission, it just stays. And then August. A name, a memory, a life that used to be part of mine. Gone. Not with a goodbye, not with closure, with a Facebook post. That's a different kind of pain. Finding out someone who mattered to you, someone who knew you before life hardened you, is gone. In between all the birthday reminders and all the people arguing in the comments. We hadn't spoken in eight years. And somehow that made it worse. Because now there's no fixing it. No one day, no reaching out, no circling back, just silence that turned permanent. And people don't know what to do with that kind of grief. So they don't. They give you space, not the healing kind, the disappearing kind. And here's where it gets uncomfortable. Because grief wasn't the only thing I was carrying. Sometimes the place you're supposed to feel safest is the place you learn to stay quiet, to shrink, to not say too much. Because saying too much feels dangerous. So you adapt. You cry quieter, you speak less, you start editing yourself just to keep the peace. And then people have the audacity to ask why you've changed. But here's the part I refuse to apologize for. I still feel everything. I still love deeply. I still connect. I still break open when something matters. And I'm not going to turn that off just because it makes other people uncomfortable. Because maybe the problem isn't that I'm too much. Maybe the problem is some people have never had to carry enough to understand what this feels like. I'm not too much. I've just been through too much. And I'm still here. If this felt a little too real, that's kind of the point.