Book 1: "Too Much, Still Loved"

I don’t think people understand what it’s like to feel everything all at once. Not just emotions— but noise, energy, tone shifts, silence that lasts a second too long. It’s like walking through the world without skin. Everything touches you. Everything lingers. A laugh across the room that’s just a little too forced. A door closing harder than it needed to. The way someone’s voice softens when they’re lying, like they’re trying to make the truth easier to swallow. I notice all of it. And the worst part? I don’t know how to turn it off. It’s small things, really. Like sitting in a room with people and somehow knowing exactly who doesn’t want to be there. Or feeling the shift in someone’s mood before they even realize it themselves. Or reading a text message over and over—not because I didn’t understand it, but because I understood it too well. The punctuation. The timing. The space between words. Everything means something. Even when people say it doesn’t. “Just stop overthinking.” That’s what they always say. As if it’s a switch. As if I wouldn’t have flipped it off a long time ago if I could. I think it started before I even had words for it. When I was younger, I remember watching people more than I listened to them. Adults, especially. They’d say one thing, but their faces would say something else. Their eyes would drift. Their smiles wouldn’t quite reach. I noticed that. I noticed when someone was tired but pretending not to be. When someone was upset but trying to keep the peace. When someone was about to leave… before they actually did. I learned early that what people say isn’t always the truth. So I started paying attention to everything else. At first, people liked that about me. They said I was thoughtful. That I was mature for my age. That I “just got it.” I remembered birthdays without reminders. Picked up on things people didn’t say out loud. Knew when to check in, when to stay quiet, when to care just a little more than anyone asked me to. It made me feel… needed. Important, even. Like I had something to offer that not everyone did. But somewhere along the way, that shifted. What used to be seen as thoughtful started getting labeled as too much. “You think too deeply.” “You take things too personally.” “You’re reading into it again.” Again. Like it was a habit I couldn’t break. Like it was something annoying instead of something natural. I remember the first time I felt it clearly. That moment where you realize you’ve crossed some invisible line. We were sitting across from each other— not even arguing, not really. Just talking. At least, I thought we were. I said something honest. Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just… real. And they paused. Not a long pause. But long enough. Long enough for me to feel it settle in my chest—that quiet, sinking feeling. Then came the smile. The kind that looks right but feels wrong. “You’re overthinking it,” they said lightly. “It’s not that deep.” And just like that, something in me folded. It’s strange how quickly you can go from feeling understood… to feeling like you’ve said too much. Like you’ve exposed something that should’ve stayed hidden. After that, I started editing myself. Not in big, obvious ways. Just small adjustments. I’d think something—then decide not to say it. Feel something—then convince myself it wasn’t worth bringing up. Notice something—then pretend I didn’t. I became more careful. More filtered. More… acceptable. And it worked. People were more comfortable around me. Conversations felt lighter. Easier. No tension. No “you’re doing too much” looks. I learned how to laugh things off instead of leaning into them. How to say “it’s fine” even when it wasn’t. How to play it cool, even when my mind was anything but. I became the version of myself that people didn’t have to figure out. But here’s the thing about pretending not to feel everything— You still do. It doesn’t go away. It just has nowhere to go. So it builds. Quietly. In the background. It shows up at night the most. When everything is still. No distractions. No noise to hide behind. Just me, my thoughts, and every moment I brushed off during the day. Every “it’s fine” I didn’t mean. Every question I didn’t ask. Every feeling I swallowed because I didn’t want to seem like too much. That’s when it all comes back. Louder. I’ll replay conversations in my head like scenes from a movie. What I said. What they said. What I should’ve said. The tone. The pauses. The look on their face when I mentioned something slightly too real. I don’t even mean to do it. My brain just… goes there. Searching for something. Clarity, maybe. Or reassurance that I didn’t mess it up again. Relationships make it worse. Or maybe they just make it more obvious. At the beginning, it always feels easy. They like how attentive I am. How I notice the little things. How I care in a way that feels intentional, not accidental. I remember what they say. I pay attention to what they don’t say. I show up in ways that feel thoughtful. And for a while, it’s appreciated. Wanted, even. But then comes the shift. It’s subtle at first. A shorter response. A delayed reply. A different tone I can’t quite explain—but I feel it. And suddenly, I’m back in that space. Trying to figure out what changed. Trying to decide if I should say something… or stay quiet. Trying not to become “too much” again. I start negotiating with myself. “Don’t bring it up.” “It’s probably nothing.” “You’re doing it again.” So I stay quiet. Even when everything in me wants to ask. Even when I can feel the distance growing in real time. And the crazy part? Sometimes I’m right. Sometimes something is off. Sometimes the thing I didn’t say out loud is exactly what ends up being the problem later. But by then, it’s too late. Because I already convinced myself not to trust what I felt. That’s the part no one talks about. What it does to you when you constantly question your own instincts. When you’re told you’re “too much” so many times, you start second-guessing the very things that make you aware. You stop trusting yourself. And once that happens? Everything feels uncertain. So now I exist somewhere in the middle. Not fully myself. But not fully disconnected either. I still notice everything. Still feel everything. I just don’t always let it show. I’ve mastered the art of looking unbothered. Of smiling at the right moments. Of keeping things light when they feel heavy. Of acting like I’m not analyzing every detail in real time. People think I’m calm. Easygoing. Uncomplicated. And maybe, on the outside, I am. But internally? It’s never that quiet. The truth is… I don’t think I’m “too much.” I think I just experience the world in a way that most people don’t take the time to understand. And instead of learning it— They label it. Dismiss it. Reduce it to something that needs to be fixed. But what if it doesn’t? What if nothing about me needs to be toned down, watered down, or hidden? What if the problem was never how deeply I feel— But who I was feeling around? I don’t have the answer yet. But I do know this: I’m tired of shrinking to fit into spaces that were never meant to hold me. Tired of making myself easier to keep—only to still be left. Tired of pretending I don’t notice things, just to make other people comfortable. So maybe I stop. Not all at once. But little by little. Maybe I start saying what I actually mean. Asking the questions I usually keep to myself. Trusting the feelings I’ve been taught to doubt. Maybe I stop apologizing for the way I exist. And maybe— just maybe— there’s someone out there who won’t look at me like I’m too much. Someone who won’t flinch when I’m fully myself. Someone who doesn’t need me to shrink in order to stay. I don’t know when I’ll meet them. Or if I already have and just didn’t realize it yet. But I do know one thing. When I do— I won’t have to edit myself to be loved. And for the first time in a long time… that feels possible. End of Chapter 1