Too Much, Too Often, Too Quiet

This isn’t my usual Sunday content—more of a personal essay, a self-reflection piece as I try to work through something that’s been weighing on me.

Lately, I’ve noticed myself repeating patterns from my youth. Ones I’m not proud of. Ones that no longer serve me.

At some point in my childhood, I learned that it was dangerous to be fully myself. I was too loud. Too spirited. Too dramatic. Just… too much. I had big feelings and no safe place to put them, so I dimmed my light. I tried to shrink myself—emotionally, socially—to avoid taking up too much space. Being part of a group, even half-seen, felt safer than being alone.

That kind of shrinking doesn’t work well for someone who is neurodivergent and anxious. But I didn’t know that about myself back then. I just knew I couldn’t trust my own feelings. I couldn’t trust myself. So I learned to betray myself instead. I molded. Performed. Endured harm I never deserved. All to stay included, to not be left behind.

Because of that, I’ve lost a lot of friendships over the years. So when I thought I’d finally found a community of women, I clung tight. I tried to be fully honest. Vulnerable. I wanted depth and real connection—the kind I never had when I was younger. Therapy has taught me that if you don’t allow yourself to feel the hard things, you’ll never access the good ones. So I offered the truth of who I was, flaws and all.

But again, maybe predictably, I felt something shift. The dynamics changed, and I sensed I was becoming “too much” again. That my feelings were inconvenient. That space for me was shrinking. And that’s when the younger version of me stepped in. The one who learned early that conflict wasn’t safe, that emotions needed to be hidden, not handled.

I’ve always been conflict avoidant. Not because I don’t care, but because conflict stirs up emotions I’ve spent most of my life trying to outrun. I try not to cry, especially in front of others. I keep it together. Stay composed. Mask the chaos inside. And I know—logically—I know this can make me seem distant, uncaring, or even neutral. But the truth is, I have big feelings. Huge ones. A whole ocean of empathy that I’ve never quite figured out how to contain without drowning in it.

Even now, knowing what I know, feelings consume my senses. They make my throat tighten. My chest ache. They feel like choking. Sitting with them takes everything I’ve got. But I’m trying.

My younger self didn’t try. She numbed. She avoided. She used anger as armour and drugs as an escape hatch. It was easier to be perceived as cold, difficult, even a bitch, than it was to be vulnerable. To be seen.

So when that shift happened, I didn’t just pull back. I disappeared behind a wall of self-protection. I stopped communicating. I stopped being honest. And I let that wall grow taller and thicker, because part of me believed it was safer not to feel at all than to risk being hurt again.

Behind closed doors, I was talking about all of it. I was honest in therapy. I was naming the patterns, the fears, the pain. My therapist was gently—and sometimes not so gently—pushing me to do the hard thing. To speak up. To be direct. To take the risk of being misunderstood in the name of being real.

I sat with the insight, nodded along, and then went back out into the world and stayed quiet. I let fear drive. I let the younger version of me, trained in silence and self-protection, make the choices. I knew what I should do. I just couldn’t do it.

Months passed, and eventually I couldn’t keep pretending. I couldn’t keep holding it in. So I named the truth—only to be met with defensiveness and dismissal. And just like that, my 16-year-old self was right back in the driver’s seat, whispering, See? You’re too much. Honesty makes you unlovable.

I’ve felt everything this week. Grief. Rage. Shame. Sadness. I really thought I’d found my people. My village. The community I longed for as a kid. But what became clear is that being “fully me” only worked as long as it was comfortable for them.

It’s not about them. It never really was. This is about me. My patterns. My fear. My shit. I could list the hypocrisies, dissect their reactions, but that would just be a distraction. What matters is that I see where I went wrong, and I’m owning that.

I stopped communicating. I let fear guide me. I replayed the very cycle I swore I’d never repeat. I didn’t break the pattern. I folded right into it.

But thanks to my therapist, I can see my hurt younger self now. And instead of silencing her, I’m learning to show up as my 35-year-old mom self. To guide her, protect her, and make different choices.

My younger self would’ve hidden. Shape-shifted. Done whatever it took to be liked. But not this time.

I named the hurt. I spoke my truth. And yes, maybe that truth ended relationships—probably for good.
But that’s okay.
Because I am not too much.
My emotions are not too much.
I was just too much for them. The right people won’t see me that way.

Talk soon,
Tara
CEO of Chaos & Co.