I’ll Always Be Too Much.

I will always be too much in the wrong room. It’s a fact I like to carry like a small stubborn talisman, heavy, honest, and oddly comforting. I have no interest in asking myself to change to fit better, or quieter, or smaller. The world will always insist on boxes; I prefer the edges where the light leaks through. If that makes me loud, then let it be the music. If it makes me angry, then let it be the warning Bell.

There are rooms that flatten you like a pressed flower: polite, dim, the kind that hushes conversation into safe, forgettable things. I don't belong there. I am too loud, too opinionated, too frustrated in rooms that need more of me, not less. People mistake volume for bravado, but what I bring is a kind of necessary friction, an insistence that we name the awkward things, that we admit what needs tending. I’ve learned to recognize the rooms that swallow breath and time; I’ve learned to speak anyway. I speak because silence has a cost I won’t pay; dulled edges, softened truths, compromises that smell like surrender.

I am too quick to drawn conclusions; when patterns and people change. It is not cruelty so much as a survival skill taught in restless, sometimes dangerous classrooms. Patterns repeat until they stop; the jolt of a new pattern can feel like betrayal or liberation, and I tend to choose the harder clarity. If someone shifts and I misread the map, I’ll own it; loudly, honestly, but I wont pretend the old map still fits. There’s a sacredness in naming what's wrong so that what is right can step forward. I am too much, but also very much spot on. That line, the one between excess and accuracy, is thin and bright and I walk it like a tightrope walker who prefers the wind.

Love arrives quick for me, I fall hard and fast, not sloppy, but ardent and immediate. Whether a friend or lover, my heart is like open light; it finds you and spills everywhere. To some this looks like reckless devotion; to me its a radical currency. I invest quickly because life is short and thresholds are finite. There is no time for tentative deposits into a relationship bank when the world is burning and there are children to raise, animals to feed, causes to answer. You will feel seen, wholly in the way I hold space, because I am not built for half presences. When I’m in, I’m in like a tide.

And then; the other side. I am too quick to walk away when the moment is gone. Not from people, always but from illusions of what could have been. My patience doesn’t tolerate protracted fading. If the music stops and no one notices, if the joke isn’t returned and the risk isn’t taken I pull my coat close and leave. This is not cowardice it is preservation. There are only so many rooms to burn through and I would rather exit with my dignity than linger in a place that softens me into someone I don't recognise again.

I am too keen to over communicate, and that hunger comes from a scar. The historical lack of clarity nearly took my life away, sometimes literally, but also in ways that hollow you out until you forget your edges. When words were withheld, when meanings were folded into silence, and I learned that ambiguity can be its own kind of violence. So now I say more, I say too much, I lay my maps on the table. It might be a lot take; it might be raw. But its honest, and in a world that is addicted to floss, its a radical act.

I am too scared to play it cools with texts. I have read the messages and waited, and in those pauses I watched moments evaporate like morning mist. Waiting taught me the cruel lesson that timing is not abstract. it is everything. When the threshold between now and then is bridged by silence, sometimes the bridge collapses. So I answer, Quickly, Unevenly, sometimes with a vulnerable eagerness that could be and has been weaponized against me. I’d rather risk appearing urgent than risk missing the thing I wanted most. There is a bravery to urgency; it refuses to let life be stolen by a lack of courage in someone else.

This way of being is not always kind of me. The rooms that are wrong often leave scars; bruised egos, a catalogue of misread people, the ache of having loved before the other was ready. I have had to carve systems for myself, rituals small and stubborn to live with the consequences of being unapologetically present. I move slow when the world expects speed. I sleep when the pressure to perform hums too loud; I tend to the animals and plants around me because they teach a patient language most people forget. My life is a practice of balancing ferocity with tenderness, a long apprenticeship in gentleness for the parts of myself that batter against the world

There is a spirituality to my insistence. I don't just make noise; I make offerings. My loudness is an offering to truth. My leaving is an offering to my own dignity. The quickness with which I fall in love is an offering to the idea that beauty should be seized. Every boundary I draw is a small rite, a ceremony that says: This is sacred and I will not desecrate it for anyone. That sense of the sacred steers my choices; where I invest my time, which rooms I walk into and which I refuse. I am learning to read the energy of a room like the weather, to know when to shelter and when to stand in the rain.

So many people have tried to instruct me; blunt your edges, play it cool, wait your turn. They mean well, sometimes, but their gentleness often feels like a map to a different life; not mine. I am not interested in conforming to comfort. I am interested in being a useful kind of trouble; the kind that awakens, agitates and sometimes heals. I will not apologies for the volume of my life. I will not dilute my opinions into polite perfume. If you need softer conversation, I will give it in another room or another season. But do not ask me to be less because your nerves cannot hold me.

There is a tenderness beneath the edges. I am fierce because I have learned how fragile things are. I am loud because silence once broke me. I am quick to leave because I have loved and been left behind. These are not badges of damage; they are the weathered coins of survival. I collet them with a soft gratefulness. They remind me that being too much is not a flaw to be corrected but a signal flare that guides me back to myself.

If you stand in a room with me, expect storms and sun. Expect reckoning and rescue. Expect my honesty like a lantern; sometimes blinding, always honest. if you can’t hold it, step away with kindness. If you can bring a kettle; we’ll talk until the world settles. I will always be too much in the wrong room and I will always stubbornly, choose the rooms that need me most.