There’s a moment most of us can recognize. A look, a pause, or a shift in the air after we’ve spoken or taken up space, a moment that whispers, You’re too much. For years, I brushed it off, thinking maybe I was overanalyzing. But deep down, I knew. I could see the discomfort in people’s eyes when I leaned into my full self, the passion in my voice, the depth of my ideas, the intensity of my emotions.

It took me a while to admit that I intimidate people. And even longer to realize how much of my life I’ve spent trying to fix that.

You’re too put together …….. you plan too much ….. don’t you think you’re being uptight…… I don’t Know how to talk to you

At first, it didn’t feel like shrinking. It felt like adjusting. Holding back a joke because I wasn’t sure it would land. Softening my enthusiasm about a win so I wouldn’t seem boastful. Nodding in agreement when I really wanted to disagree. It felt harmless, like being thoughtful, considerate.

But then I started to notice how it chipped away at me.

How I’d swallow words I desperately wanted to say.

How I’d laugh less often, speak more quietly, share less deeply.

And how I’d walk away from conversations feeling drained, not because of the other person, but because I’d left pieces of myself behind.

I told myself it was for the greater good, that it was better to make others feel comfortable than to risk being misunderstood or judged. But the truth? I was afraid.

Afraid of being labeled as “too much,” “too intense,” or “too complicated.” Afraid that my boldness might push people away or make them feel less than. Afraid that if I didn’t fit neatly into the space someone had for me, they’d decide I wasn’t worth the effort.

The worst part wasn’t what others thought, it was what I started to believe. That being all of myself was somehow wrong. That my depth, my strength, my muchness was a flaw to be managed, not a gift to be celebrated.

And that’s when the loneliness set in. Because shrinking yourself doesn’t just create distance between you and others, it creates distance between you and yourself. Why the heck am I different?!

I’ve sat in that loneliness, and I’ve felt its weight. I’ve wondered if anyone could ever really love me, not the polished, toned-down version, but the real me. The me that’s a little loud, a little messy, a little all-at-once.

But here’s what I’ve learned: Shrinking doesn’t bring people closer. It only teaches you to fear the parts of yourself that make you who you are.

The truth is, the right people, the ones who are meant to be in your life, won’t flinch at your muchness, They’ll (maybe or maybe not) lean in. They’ll see your fire and recognize it as something beautiful, not something to be dimmed. They’ll remind you that your voice matters, that your presence is powerful, and that the world needs the full version of you.

I’m not saying it’s easy. I still catch myself trying to shrink, trying to fit into spaces that weren’t built for me. But I’m learning to trust that I am worthy of taking up space. That I don’t need to apologize for the way I show up in the world.

To you, the woman who feels like she’s too much: You’re not alone. I see you. I am you. And I want you to know that your fullness is not something to hide, it’s something to cherish.

Let this be the reminder we both need: You are not too much. You are exactly enough. And the right people will love you not in spite of it, but because of it. So stop shrinking. The world needs your light, just as it is, brilliant, bold, and unapologetically you.