You're not too much. They're just not enough

I remember the curve of her upper lip as it curled backward, the subtle narrowing of her eyes in a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you face. We were sitting in a circle, enjoying our picnic. I was buzzing, the kind of genuine, unguarded excitement that only happens when you forget to be cool. I can't remember what my friend said that made me burst with excitement. But I remember her face, and the silence that followed. I felt like someone turned off a switch inside me, while everyone continued like nothing happened—except her.

They could have called me stupid or dumb and I wouldn't have been as embarrassed as I felt in that moment.

Suddenly, I didn't know how to act, how to breathe. I just sat there feeling like I've been thrust onto a stage, naked, and told to act natural. So many years ago, yet, this memory ignites fiercely in my mind like a relentless furnace.

I don't know if you've experienced something similar. That one time you were yapping to your mum about a sketch you made, trying to get her to appreciate the intricate details you spent hours designing but she couldn't care less. That time you were talking about computers and processors and they were scrolling their phone, not listening to one word you were saying.

Or when you invited your best friend over to watch your favourite movie and they slept off three minutes into the film, or they just scrolled through TikTok, completely oblivious to the movie you've loved since you were five. And you're just sitting there, feeling invisible despite being surrounded by people who claim to love you.

You meet someone new, you start talking they say you're very relatable, fun to be with, you have an unmatched sense of humor. They love your expressive side. They love your truthfulness. They love your candor. When you express yourself, you're hit with the "it's not that deep" or "you're just too woke." "You talk a lot." But slowly, their texts become infrequent. You stop hanging out as much as before. The distance grows so big like a neverending chasm, and you're just too scared to keep taking the leap. Because the more you try, the farther they are from your reach.

You lay awake, at three in the morning, wondering if you're the problem. Wondering why people leave when you show them the real you—your depth. But people don't always want depth. Sometimes, people want the same repetitive personality of a nonchalant, mysterious friend.

Someone who doesn't express themselves, who doesn't analyze things as they should be because it's "never that deep," who doesn't feel like they're constantly imparting you with their odd creativity, who allows them to just... exist without putting in any effort.

So what do you do? You change, you start showing people an edited version of yourself, you become the opposite of your reflection. Because an edited version is more than just a version, it becomes a performance. You stop presenting yourself. You start presenting a version of you that you think people can handle.

Over time, this performance becomes so automatic that you forget that there was ever a real you underneath. It looks like you pretending a joke you would have laughed your ass over is unfunny. It looks like you dumbing yourself down so that they don't think that you're just being a show-off, a know-it-all. It looks like saying "I'm fine" when you're drowning, because you don't want to overwhelm anyone with your multidimensionality. It looks like you cosplaying a character that you are not, Because society deems an over-sharer or over-analyzer as socially lacking.

You know that saying that goes: you might be the prettiest rose in the bouquet but not everyone likes roses.

Some people will genuinely not like you, and they don't even have to like you, no matter how nice you are to them, how much you have to offer—it simply won't be enough for them.

But not everyone lacks depth, simply because they don't share your interests or beliefs. That's what makes us human—our variety. The people who label you as "too much"—too excited, too bubbly, talkative, too much of everything, everything they can't handle—I hope you remember that it isn't your fault, neither is it theirs.

You just happened to find yourself in a place (or alternate reality, like I love to call it) where your depth is not appreciated.

Sometimes, I still perform. A little less than before. Enough to be understood. Enough to be in the safe zone. And on some days, I stare at the wall and wonder if the old, real me is still in there. The one who laughed without checking if it was acceptable. The one who used to give an enthusiastic, childish wave, not the curt head nods or subtle smile of acknowledgement. The one who spoke without wondering if she is too much.

I wonder if she's waiting, or buried so deep that she's forgotten how to breathe. I don't know, but I keep showing up anyway. Keep talking, keep laughing, keep being too much for the people who can't handle it. Because maybe the right person will see me and lean in instead of pulling back. And that's worth all the awkward silences in the world.

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