I’ve been called a lot of things over the years.
Some flattering.
Some creative.
Some probably deserved.
But one description has followed me around more consistently than most.
Too much.
Too loud.
Too opinionated.
Too emotional.
Too hairy.
Too sexual.
Too dramatic.
Too weird.
Too honest.
Too soft.
Too hard.
Too something.
It’s funny really.
Because when you are younger, you spend a lot of time believing these things are flaws.
Little rough edges that need smoothing down.
Things to apologise for.
Things to fix.
So you edit yourself.
You become quieter.
Smaller.
Less visible.
Less complicated.
You learn which parts of yourself make people uncomfortable and which parts don’t.
Then one day you realise something.
The people who genuinely love you rarely ask you to become less.
They might ask you to grow.
They might ask you to take accountability.
They might ask you to stop being a dickhead from time to time.
But they don’t ask you to disappear.
The older I get, the interested I am in making myself smaller for the convenience of strangers.
I’m hairy.
I’m tattooed.
I laugh too loudly.
I care deeply about things that don’t always make sense.
I cry at music.
I rescue animals.
I collect strange stories.
I can talk about body hair, foraging, kink, dogs, and recovery all in the same conversation without seeing a problem.
Honestly?
I’ve spent years trying to force myself into boxes that never fit properly.
Turns out the problem wasn’t me.
The boxes were shit.