He said it like it was a warning.
Like the fire was mine to put out.
Like being “too much” was something I should shrink for.
Too loud.
Too flirty.
Too proud.
Too emotional.
Too confident in heels and too unreadable without them.
Too much of everything — for him.
Which, in hindsight, was the point.
I used to flinch at that phrase.
“Too much” felt like criticism dressed as care.
It came in lowercase texts and long pauses. In half-hearted compliments laced with confusion:
“You’re just a lot sometimes.”
“You don’t need to say everything you think.”
“Why do you always need attention?”
As if shrinking would make me more lovable.
As if toning it down would earn me gold stars or good girl points.
As if playing it small was cute.
It never was.
So I stopped waiting for them to keep up.
I started talking like no one was going to interrupt.
Posting photos like I meant to be seen.
Wearing red lipstick in the middle of the day because it made me feel alive.
I let the laugh get louder.
Let the opinions land harder.
Let the camera linger longer.
I let my “too much” bloom into exactly enough — for the version of me that doesn’t apologize.
Here’s the truth he didn’t ask for:
If I’m “too much” for you, you’re not even close to enough for me.
Because I am not a girl you half-love.
Not a text you send from the passenger seat.
Not a plan B or a mood-board muse.
I am chaos, curated.
Messy in the mornings, immaculate by dinner.
Soft when I want to be, sharp when I need to be.
You don’t dim a chandelier because someone’s eyes can’t handle the light.
Feminine rage looks different on me.
It’s not shouting. It’s silence that sings.
It’s not throwing things. It’s posting without looking back.
It’s not burning bridges. It’s building better ones — prettier, stronger, private.
It’s walking past the man who once called you “intimidating” while wearing heels higher than his standards.
It’s letting your story unfold in your own voice.
Not the version he tried to narrate for you.
He’ll watch, of course.
They always do.
The ones who couldn’t hold you always come back to peek.
To lurk in stories they don’t reply to.
To scroll in silence, wondering if you still think about them. (You don’t.)
You become the one that got away — not because you ran,
but because you finally stood still long enough to realize you didn’t need to chase approval anymore.
You walked away, and the room didn’t fall quiet.
You took the music with you.
Let them say you’re too much.
Too bold. Too emotional. Too powerful. Too online. Too magnetic.
Let them say it with envy.
Let them say it with admiration they can’t name.
Let them whisper it behind screens they’ll never have the guts to message again.
Because while they’re busy labeling you “too much,”
you’ll be too booked, too glowing, and too busy building a life that never needed their permission.
So yes. He said I was “too much.”
And I said: “Too late.”
He can scroll me on IG now (and stay out of my DMs).
—M 💋