why being too much isn't the problem — shrinking is

reclaiming warmth, depth and emotional presence in recovery.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt like I was “too much”. I am highly sensitive — easily affected by minute changes in energy — and I often assume I’m responsible for those shifts in some way. Growing up, I regularly got into trouble with authority figures despite having the best of intentions. At times, it felt like I was causing disruption simply by existing: by being too loud, too emotional, too intense.

Recently, I was honest with a potential romantic interest about where I’m at in my life — my mental health, my recovery — and I was met with the words, “This feels like a little too much, too soon, for me.” It was difficult not to hear that as, “You feel like too much for me.” It felt like punishment for transparency, and it reaffirmed an old belief: that being myself, that showing others my truth, will eventually lead to abandonment.

It doesn’t help that I’m accustomed to playing small — shrinking myself to be accepted. As a black girl in predominantly white spaces, I learned exactly how to present myself so as not to cause discomfort. That meant people-pleasing to a fault and never calling out prejudice or racism. It’s why I stayed silent when a white best friend used the word “kaffir” casually, or why I laughed when someone said something racially out of line and excused it by saying I wasn’t really Black — therefore not included in their warped view of blackness.

I was rewarded externally for not being “too much”, for protecting others from their own introspection. But internally, I was eroding. I sacrificed my values and boundaries to fit into a world I didn’t belong in. What a fucking privilege — to be allowed into a space at the cost of myself. I became a safe place for others to be their true, sometimes problematic, selves, because they knew I was the least likely to challenge them. I suppose I was rewarded too — by feeling needed and useful — but I was rarely, if ever, truly seen.

Feeling like I was too much when I was authentic was medicated by substances, which allowed me to escape whenever I felt overexposed. In recovery, I feel like I’m too much all the time. It can feel like a setback, but it’s anything but. I now have the space to be fully myself — whoever that may be. I’m still discovering who I am, but the opportunity to learn is a miracle in itself. The trade-off, though, is the removal of my emotional anaesthetic. Everything feels sharper. Any expression of emotion can feel wrong — like I’m doing too much, like I am too much.

Introspection and pattern-spotting through relentless work — like moving through the twelve steps — has made me hyperaware of myself. It’s overwhelming. With that awareness comes the urge to be brutally honest in my relationships. But the vulnerability hangover — not the honesty itself, but the aftermath — can make authenticity feel dangerous, like it invites scrutiny. And scrutiny has always felt like a threat to my overactive nervous system.

I’ve never felt more sensitive. I’ve cried so much over the past two weeks that I’ve wondered if something is wrong with me. The triggers always seem small, but they almost always follow a “too much” moment — saying too much, revealing too much. Removing a mask I’ve worn my entire life is going to feel horrendous. If I’ve spent years playing small, becoming my real self will inevitably feel dramatic and uncomfortable.

What I’m learning — slowly — is that discomfort doesn’t always mean danger. Sometimes it’s simply the sensation of taking up space after years of containment. The old reflex is to assume I’ve misstepped, that I should retract or apologise. The newer, gentler question I’m practising is: Was I actually unsafe — or was I just visible?

I’m in the process of reframing “too much” as a gift. What some experience as excess is often my greatest power. My emotional depth and compassion help me connect deeply. My attentiveness makes people feel heard. My warmth makes others feel safe. My intuition allows me to see beneath the surface — and to offer recognition even when language falls short.

These qualities attract both connection and confusion. They make me magnetic — but only to those who can receive me. It’s why people open up to me quickly, and also why others become overwhelmed or inconsistent. Recently, I opened up again — writing someone I trusted a message full of what I loved about him and our friendship. When it was met with silence, I assumed I’d been too much and deleted it in a surge of anxiety. While my motivations weren’t perfectly pure — giving validation in the subconscious hope of receiving it — what I wrote was true. It was simply given to someone who may not have had the capacity to hold it.

I am choosing “too much” over “too little”. I’d rather be too present, too visible, too passionate than ever shrink myself again. For me, this means wearing my heart on my sleeve and learning not to take it personally when others don’t know what to do with it. It means choosing honesty even when it’s misread. It means laughing loudly, crying openly and speaking freely. These are freedoms — not flaws.

With freedom comes responsibility. The responsibility to hold boundaries. To discern where my full self belongs. To stop shrinking for the comfort of others. Some people are not entitled to the full magic of me — and that’s okay. There are others who show me, daily, that this version of me is not only welcome, but respected. Not because it benefits them — but because they understand that my authenticity is an act of self-care.

To anyone who has ever been labelled “too much”: I see you. Don’t dim your light for anyone’s comfort — least of all men. Being too much is not my weakness. It is my strength. I am done apologising for existing. I hope you can too.

Me on the left: extra since the day I was born.