Journal Entry: “Too Much”
June 27, 2025

They told me I was too much.
Too big.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too wild with joy. Too serious with hope. Too full of dreams they never bothered to understand.

So I shrank.
I folded in the edges of myself like origami, turning vibrant wings into a quiet little box that wouldn’t ruffle feathers.
But even small, I was still too much for them.

Men liked the idea of me.
The sparkle. The fire. The way I could light up a room or build magic out of nothing.
But they didn’t stay for the real me.
They stayed just long enough to take the light, to drink me down like wine,
to say wow—before walking away, leaving me the bottle: empty.

Like vampires, they fed on my energy.
Took my stories. Took my softness. Took the best parts I gave too easily because I wanted, so desperately, to be cherished.

And I gave.
God, I gave.
I showed up. I celebrated people. I made birthdays magical. I brought flowers, planned surprises, listened deep into the night.
But no one ever gave me what I was quietly aching for in return.
Not the “I love you”
Not the “I see you”
Not the “You matter too much to ever be left behind.”

If I disappeared tomorrow… people would be sad, for a while.
But they would move on.
Because no one sees the dark I carry.
The heavy silence I sleep beside.
The fear that I’ll always be alone in this loud world that keeps taking and never offering sanctuary.

I told my parents I was scared.
Scared of starting over. Of raising my boys alone. Of failing.
They said the usual: You’ll figure it out. You’re strong.
But they never said, What do you need? How can I help you carry this?

They say I’m brave.
But being brave when you have no choice isn’t courage—it’s survival.

Looking back, I realize how little care I’ve truly received.
Men didn’t protect me.
They didn’t lift me up.
They didn’t say, Let me make life easier for you, because you deserve it.
Instead, I became a safe place for them. A pause in their chaos.
A pitstop. A muse.
Not a home.

And the hardest truth?
I never got to live out my calling.
The wild, rich life of nature and purpose I felt in Monteverde was ripped away before it bloomed.
And I’m left holding the petals of a life I almost had—wondering if it will ever be mine again.

I am tired of being emptied.
Tired of wondering if I’m lovable only when I’m giving.
Tired of being “too much” and somehow “not enough” all at once.

I want someone to look at me and say:
You don’t have to do a damn thing. I’m here. You matter. Let me carry some of this.

But today, it’s just me.
Writing it down.
Still hoping that someday, someone will show up—not for the glitter,
but for the soul beneath it.
Not to take…
But to stay.