I have spent my entire life, since I can remember, feeling like I’m too much. I was the grandchild that had far too many opinions, looked suspiciously like my mother (aka my paternal Nan’s worst nightmare) and was cursed with the unrelenting burden of a constant, sometimes screaming, internal monologue. I have vivid memories of being seven years old and laying in bed imagining the world spinning around if I died. It was heavy and I had no clue where it came from. It was like I was born with worry in my bones, and from the moment I could express it, it made me feel isolated and, at times, like I didn’t quite belong.

Because of this, on the two occasions I have fallen in love, it has been extremely special and ultimately, very painful for me. I believe that to be loved, is to be seen, and I have always felt like there has been an awful lot of me to see. Because of this, when things don’t work out in your twenties, as they so often don’t - rejection has felt very personal. I have no doubt that rejection feels incredibly personal to everyone, but for some reason, it has only amplified the whisper I had as a young child - I am too much and the way in which I feel things is not normal.

Not too long ago, I went on two dates with a man and when I asked him whether he truly had the intention of wanting to get to know me, he responded with: “This is a lot for a Tuesday evening” followed by “I think this is a lot for only two dates”. He obviously had no clue the wound that comment picked at and I have no expectation that he should have, but I will admit, those comments were very confronting for me.

​​What he didn’t realise is that his comment reminded me of every time I’ve been punished for my unwavering ability to be brutally myself. It wasn’t just about the date - it was about the job I lost because I stood up for something I believed in, the heartbreak I carried from the boy I thought I’d spend my life with, and the group of girls that I desperately wanted to fit in with at school that never invited me to their sleepovers.

Sincerity, once again, backfired.

At least, that’s what it felt like. The word backfired suggests failure - that my openness triggered the wrong reaction, that I caused the discomfort or disconnection by being too honest, too early, too much. But what if that’s not the truth?

What if being brave enough to show up exactly as you are simply makes way for what is right for you, for people who have the emotional availability to welcome someone fully, and with open arms.

Sincerity is scary. It isn’t for everyone. It shines a light on parts of people they may not be ready to see, and being truly seen makes it hard to hide. Some people won’t like that. But their discomfort isn’t a mirror. It’s not a reflection of me, or of me being ‘too much’ - it just means I’ve been asking the wrong people.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is - What if vulnerability doesn’t backfire - what if it filters?

While I sound like I’ve had a perspective shift throughout this article, I won’t pretend rejection, even viewed through this lens, doesn’t still sting. It does. I’m not in a place right now where I feel brave enough to put myself out there again and I don’t think I will be for quite a while yet - and that’s okay. I’m quite content with getting to know myself even better for now and learning to give myself more grace for being my anxious, thoughtful, complex self.

Maybe I am a lot. But maybe being a lot isn’t a flaw - the depth with which I feel, the sincerity I bring to conversations, the weight of my wanting to be known and to know someone, these aren’t things I need to apologise for. They make me who I am and someone will be extremely privileged to get to know me one day.

After all, I have never wished to know less about someone I loved - I have only ever wanted to know more.