This Is For The Ones Who Feel Too Much.

I’m not going to unpack the entire museum of why the fuark I grew up disliking myself. We all know kids aren’t born with low self-esteem. That stuff is taught, handed down, an intergenerational pass-the-parcel straight from the devil’s arse. I’ve already written about the childhood debris; this one’s about the adult version of me: the anxiously attached human who loves chips, bread, beer, and has a nervous system like exposed power lines on a windy day.

Twenty years old, I felt like I’d lived a hundred years. At thirty-seven, I’m tired, bro. You spend your whole life dreaming of a family that doesn’t evaporate, a base that feels like a home, friendships where someone reaches for you first.

The spiritual joke is that people love people like me at the start. Anxiously attached mother fuckers are basically an emotional espresso shot. We connect easily. We engage. We listen. We look right into your eyes hoping for reciprocity because we actually want a relationship where two people show up.

Here’s a photo of a depressed person who functions in society.

And people do love that… for a minute. Maybe a month. Then suddenly it’s “too intense,” “too much,” or “I just need space.” We’re not too much; we’re just consistent. And consistency is confronting when you’re living in a chronically avoidant society that worships emotional botox - move your face, move your feels - we get it bro, you’re chill.

My marriage is ending, and I truly believed I’d healed this part of myself. Weirdly when the dream I’d held for years shatters into tiny emotional nuggets of poo, every old wound I swore I’d buried shows up again — loud af. Suddenly the inner child is gripping my ribcage, screaming about abandonment, begging for anything that feels like an anchor.

A bit lucky in that, my anchor is my kid. That boy cuts through the static. He’s why I keep showing up. He’s why I heal — even when I don’t want to, even when I’m tired as tits.

Here’s the thing no one tells the anxiously attached: being this way isn’t a flaw. It’s evidence that we’re not afraid of the one thing Jung said humans absolutely need for wholeness — relatedness. Vulnerability. Inner truth. Connection.

To the avoidant humans: there are better alternatives to running.

Clarity. Boundaries. Love. Real connection.

The old essentials humans have needed to co-exist.

Avoidance might be fashionable, but it’s not fulfilling. In the long run, it gives you a nice shiny surface and a hollow centre.

People like me?

We’re annoying at times to be fair.

Also, we’re alive. We’re real. We’re built for connection, and we don’t apologise for wanting it.

In a world this disconnected, feeling too much isn’t the weakness.

It’s the cure imo.