Too Much and Just Enough

I’m tired—not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that lives in your bones and behind your eyes. The kind that aches in places you can’t even name. I’m tired emotionally, spiritually, soulfully. And today, I’m letting myself be that girl—the one who finally says I can’t keep holding it all together. The one who admits she’s breaking in quiet, invisible ways. I want to say it out loud: I’m not okay.

These past few weeks have wrecked me. Work has demanded everything I don’t have left. I’ve been pouring from a cup that’s long been empty. It’s hard to be present when your heart is somewhere else. Every day I show up when all I want is to lie down and rest from everything. And outside of work, life isn’t any quieter. So much has happened all at once. I feel like I’m stuck on a rollercoaster that never stops—up, down, loop, crash, repeat. Some days I feel everything too deeply. Other days, I feel nothing at all. Just numb.

If you know me, you know I’m private. Guarded. I carry things in silence. I’ve become an expert at surviving quietly. Most people don’t really know me. They only know the parts I’ve curated. They don’t know how many times I’ve cried alone, how many pieces I’ve stitched back together without asking for help. They don’t see the strength it takes to keep showing up.

And if you really know me, you’d know this: I don’t hesitate to leave. I walk away from anything that makes me feel unsafe, unseen, or unloved. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other, how deeply I’ve loved you, how much history we carry—if it starts to cost me my peace, I will let go. Not because I want to. But because I have to. I’ve learned to walk away before I break. And I won’t always explain why.

I’ve been broken in ways I never want to revisit. I’ve lost myself in people before, and I barely made it back. So I walk. Even when it hurts. Even when I still love you. Because I know what happens if I stay too long. And I’m not strong enough to lose myself again.

But here’s the contradiction that guts me: when I love, I love with everything. I don’t half-love. I don’t hold back. I love generously. I give 100. Always. When I choose someone, I pour all of me into them, without conditions, without fear. I give and give and give until there’s nothing left. And that’s why, when I leave, I don’t always regret it. Because I know I gave everything I had. I have no “what ifs.” No questions about whether I could’ve tried harder. I did. I always do. You had all of me. And you didn’t know what to do with it.

And that’s okay.

Because at least I know, in that moment, you needed that kind of love. You needed someone like me. Someone who shows up. Who listens. Who pours warmth into your cracks and stays when things feel heavy. And maybe you didn’t know how to give it back. Maybe you couldn’t meet me where I was. That’s okay too. I won’t force it.

I’ll never force anyone to love me the way I love. But I won’t stay where I’m starving either.

It’s taken me years to learn that just because I love someone deeply doesn’t mean they’re meant to stay. And just because someone can’t love me the way I need, doesn’t mean my love was wasted. Sometimes, I was just a reminder of what real love could look like. And if they couldn’t hold it—that’s not my fault.

Still, there are moments I resent how much I care. Moments I wish I didn’t feel everything so deeply. That I wasn’t always too much. Because I ask myself often: Why am I like this? Why am I always too much? And beneath that question, there’s a quieter ache: Will anyone ever be able to hold someone like me?

I know what they say—the right people will never think you’re too much. But sometimes I still wonder if those people even exist.

Lately, I’ve been letting go more than I ever have. Not because I want to. Not because I enjoy it. But because I’ve learned to stop shrinking in spaces that don’t have room for me. I can’t keep giving pieces of myself to people who only leave me emptier. It’s not coldness. It’s survival.

I don’t enjoy being angry. I hate the way it burns in my chest. It makes me someone I don’t recognize. So I suppress. I stay quiet. I bite my tongue and swallow every unspoken word—until silence turns into resentment. And that’s dangerous. Because when the dam breaks, it’s not pretty. So I stay silent because I’m scared of what might spill out if I open my mouth.

People think I’m sweet. That I’m soft, gentle, and easy. But please know—this softness is hard-won. This kindness has cost me. And while I may seem calm, don’t mistake me for someone you can push. Because when I’m done, I don’t yell. I don’t explain. I just leave.

You won’t even know I was packing my peace while you were taking me for granted.

So if one day I disappear from your life, know this—it wasn’t sudden. It happened over time. Every moment you made me feel like too much. Every time you didn’t show up. I was slowly leaving before I actually left.

And maybe you’ll say I’m selfish. Maybe you’ll call me guarded, cold, or too much. Maybe you’ll say I changed. And maybe you’re right. But I’ve abandoned myself too many times to stay where I’m not valued.

I’m done with that.

I won’t apologize for choosing myself. I won’t keep sacrificing my peace for people who only love the easiest parts of me. You’re free to have your version of the story. But I’m writing mine now.

And in mine, I finally stay. Not for you. For me.