Stories Link Copied 03.13.25

How I Got Over My Fear of Being “Too Much”

…and made more meaningful connections. BySamantha Feher

Sam Feher / Wondermind

I think it was “talks too much in class.” That was the first time I’d ever considered that more wasn’t always better.

Growing up, every ride to school was a live Grouplove concert, complete with air guitar and invisible microphones. Easter egg coloring was an extreme sport. “More” was the name of my family’s game, and I wore my team colors proudly—on my heart and on my sleeve.

So I talked too much in class. That I could live with. The demerit came padded with friendship bracelets and birthday party invitations. 

But as the years went by, “too much” became something to be ashamed of. Sometimes, I’d hear people describe me as, “She’s…a lot.” The label, side-eyes, and snarky comments started to sting.

Eventually, I learned that it was more desirable to be “less.” Those who were “less” were invited to parties and asked to dances. So, by the time I got to college, I wore a “chill girl” mask so convincing I even had myself fooled. 

I dated one untameable boy after another (they all thought it was their idea) and joined the cool, we-barely-care sorority. I felt like a fraud, but it was better to feel like a fraud than a spectacle.

One boyfriend stuck around right up until graduation. He’d fallen in love with the chill girl, but he could see the cracks in my mask. He was quick to call them out—in front of friends, family, and strangers—any chance he got. 

One time, I made the mistake of shouting an answer at a rowdy trivia night, and he loudly told me to shut up and stop begging for attention. His friends pulled me aside to apologize on his behalf. The third (or was it fourth?) time we broke up, he said it outright: I was “too much.” What remained of the mask shattered. And thank goodness. 

Six years, 122 therapy sessions, four jobs, three boyfriends, and two apartments later, I’m unapologetically, shamelessly myself. 

I talk a lot in an effort to relate and connect with people through shared experience. I overexplain my intentions so I’m not misunderstood. I want to be heard, so I raise my volume. I'm forward and enthusiastic in a way that sometimes makes other people uncomfortable.

While I work to avoid being perceived as self-absorbed or even rude, I’m just being me. I think most of the "too much" girlies (or anyone who's been labeled this way) can relate to all that. We're not shy or placid or "chill" by nature, and sometimes people are put off by our strong personalities. It happens. But it doesn’t mean we’re too much. 

I sing (badly) at karaoke bars full of strangers. I belly laugh loudly and unabashedly. I cry when the tears come, whether it’s someone else’s definition of the right time and place or not. I tell people I love them every time they leave a room because I do. I dance in public, hug people the first time we meet, and call them afterward to see if they want to hang out sometime. I follow first on Instagram. I quadruple-text. I ask, “What are we?” I order another round. I ask the waitress her name. I remember it.

I found people who love me for me. And I’ve learned to embrace the parts of myself I used to think were flawed. Here’s how I did it.

I fell in love with myself.

After that college breakup, I was tempted to double down on my chill facade. But I was exhausted. I was tired of playing contortionist with my personality, constantly trying to fit it into too-tight spaces. Tired of withholding every opinion, every anecdote. Tired of nodding and smiling and laughing (quietly, of course) at the right times and never sharing in return. Tired of being nothing but a receptacle for other people to talk at or a prized accessory.

So, instead, I let go. All the me I’d been pushing down came flooding out of my every pore. It was easier than I thought. Pretending took years of curation, practice, and discipline—kicking myself for too-loud laughs and too-forward questions. Giving myself pep talks in the mirror before an event, promising my reflection that I’d be quiet and accommodating. But after I quit pretending, I discovered that being myself wasn’t hard at all.

It felt like going home. Growing up, I didn’t know anything else—I was me all the time, and I was celebrated for it. But my inner child hadn’t been seen or heard in ages. So when I held her again, she was starved for affection. I reminded her to take up space, to be vulnerable, and to be proud of her zeal for life. Taking care of her felt like the first deep breath after a head cold.

When that little girl was back on her feet, I felt a shift. Survival mode evolved into equilibrium. Once I was comfortable in my own skin, I realized, for the first time, that there was room for more of me. 

So I honored my curiosity, saying yes to everything that came my way—even the things I would’ve been shamed for in the past. I filmed funny videos to share online (“attention-seeking”). I did a stint on reality TV (“desperate”). I started a podcast (“nobody asked for this”).

I learned that there is no upper limit on joy and fulfillment. With permission to take up space, I saw a version of myself I was proud of, even impressed by. This one is earnest and passionate and loud and brave and happy—and I fell in love with her.

I surrounded myself with people who loved me.

In high school and college, life was a popularity contest. Were you invited to your favorite frat’s mountain weekend? Did you have a group of friends to pregame the date party with? How many people said hi to you in the library today? 

As such, I entered adulthood thinking that my value was measured by the number of people who loved me.

If I was “too much,” it meant I was too annoying, too emotional, too exhausting to be around all the time, and people would leave. So I spent a lot of time learning how to rein in my personality just enough to make people comfortable. 

I was so swept up in my efforts to make people like me that I rarely stopped to consider whether I liked them.

It took a lot of self-reflection to realize that, for the most part, I didn’t. Maybe I liked the idea of them (or the idea of them liking me), but these were not people I admired. They were judgy sorority girls, snarky coworkers, and douchebag guys with commitment issues. They made me feel bad about myself, like I needed to change to feel welcome. That’s not the kind of person I want to be or be around.

I started thinking about how other people made me feel, shedding the frenemies and situationships that made me feel small, unworthy, or stupid just for being myself. And when I met someone new who made me feel good—safe, loved, wanted—I held them close. I directed my time and energy toward those relationships because what you water grows. I wanted to grow that feeling forever.

Now, many of my friends have big personalities like mine. But the ones who don’t actually appreciate a big personality in a friend. I can help carry the mental and emotional load at social engagements, bring the energy, and articulate complicated or vulnerable thoughts and feelings. We fit like puzzle pieces.

I found community.

Today, I see and love myself for who I am—not who I think I should be. So, in a turn of events my elementary school report card no doubt manifested, I decided to make “talks too much in class” my full-time job. I’m leaning into my big personality.

When people come across me on TV, hear my podcast, or find my videos on their social media feed, they get what they see—in all my honest, extra, vulnerable, nonlinear glory. 

Of course, there are people who don’t like it. There always will be. But there are more who are curious and open, for whom my journey resonates deeply. 

For those people, my content is not a broadcast; it’s a dialogue. We trade stories, struggles, joys, learnings, and heartache. Connection is our currency, and the community just keeps growing.

If I can give you one piece of advice: Feel your big feelings and share them. Make space for others. Cherish them. Talk more. If you’re loud enough, you might just be heard all over the world.