neuro-spicy

Apparently, I can be too much. Too emotional. Too open. Too talkative. Too honest. Too… everything. But maybe that’s not really the problem. Maybe I just feel things deeply in a world that prefers emotional beige.

We’ve all heard it, haven’t we? “You’re too sensitive.” “You take things to heart.” “You talk about stuff that makes people uncomfortable.” Translation: you’re being real, and I’m not sure what to do with that.

So, here’s my reframe: maybe I’m not too much. Maybe they’re just not enough!

A Lifetime of being ‘a bit much’

If I had a fiver for every time I was asked “why are you getting so upset” or told to “stop overthinking it,” I could probably buy a small emotional-support island by now. 

It’s not that I’m loud — it’s that my feelings tend to show up before my filter does. I’ll overshare in the queue at the supermarket, cry at adverts about rescue dogs, and then spend three hours replaying a conversation in my head because I’m convinced I made someone uncomfortable. People love authenticity — until it’s messy, vulnerable, or a bit too real. Then suddenly it’s “you’re too intense” or “you need to calm down.” But do I? Do any of us? The truth is, it’s exhausting to keep sanding down your edges just so other people don’t cut themselves on your honesty.

Flipping the script

Here’s a thought: maybe it’s not that I feel too deeply, maybe others just… don’t feel enough. We live in a culture that worships logic and labels emotion as weakness. If you stay detached, you’re “professional.” If you care too much, you’re “unstable.”

But what if empathy, passion, and openness aren’t flaws? What if they’re the very things that make us better leaders, partners, creators — humans? People say they want “authenticity” in business and relationships — but what they usually mean is: “Be real, but not that real.”

The emotional cost – shrinking hurts

Trying to bottle your emotions for the comfort of others is like shaking a can of Coke and pretending it’s not going to explode.

I’ve done it. I’ve gone into social situations thinking, “Right, just be chill. Don’t get too enthusiastic. Don’t overshare. Don’t cry at your own stories this time” (yeah, that’s been a thing!). And every single time, it feels like walking on emotional eggshells — and I still end up saying something like, “Does anyone else overthink their own emails?” (Spoiler: silence.)

The thing is, masking doesn’t make me less ‘much’ — it just makes me exhausted. And it disconnects me from the very part of myself that actually connects with people: my heart.

Dressing the part (Or “what would Pat Butcher do”)

As a teenager, I went through a lot of “phases.” Hippy chick. Goth. Rocker. Confused. You name it — I probably had the wardrobe for it. And while it might have looked like I was exploring my identity, the truth is, it was less self-discovery and more self-defence. Each phase was an attempt to fit into whatever group I thought would make me less noticeable — a very confused chameleon trying to match my surroundings so perfectly that nobody would see how out of place I actually felt.

Fast forward a few decades, and that instinct to blend in hadn’t really gone away — it just got better dressed. I wore what everyone else was wearing, even if it didn’t make my heart sing. But somewhere deep down, the real me was dreaming of leopard print, bold colours, and earrings that could double as small wind chimes.

The day I finally started dressing for myself, and not for the comfort of others, something shifted. It wasn’t just about clothes; it was about permission. Permission to stop apologising for existing in full technicolour. Now, do I occasionally look like Pat Butcher on her way to brunch? Absolutely. (If you know, you know.) But I also feel authentic, comfortable, me.

And that doesn’t mean every day is a glitter explosion. Some days I camouflage in my jeans and sweatshirt because I need quiet. Or I have been known to shuffle around my house all day in my PJs — just because. But the difference now is that I’m choosing it. And every time I reach for something bold, I’m reminding myself that being “too much” isn’t the problem. It’s the pretending that hurts.

Why we feel so much (The science bit — don’t panic)

Here’s the thing: when you’re neurodivergent, feeling things deeply isn’t a character flaw — it’s literally how your brain is wired. For many of us — autistic, ADHD, PDA, AuDHD — our nervous systems are like Formula One engines running on supermarket fuel. We process emotions, sounds, sensations, and social cues all at once, often without any filter to soften the blow.

That means joy can feel euphoric, but embarrassment can feel like an actual physical injury. Rejection sensitivity (RSD) means even a neutral “we’ll circle back” in an email can feel like a breakup. Emotional dysregulation makes tiny frustrations hit like a tidal wave. And because our brains don’t have the same “autopilot” that neurotypical ones do for emotional regulation, we can swing from overthinking a comment to writing a business plan at 2am out of sheer adrenaline.

It’s not overreacting — it’s accurately reacting with a nervous system that forgot to install a dimmer switch.

The gift (and risk) of feeling deeply

For all its challenges, one of the most wonderful things about feeling so deeply is the connection it brings. Because I feel things fully, I notice when others are struggling — it’s like my emotional radar is permanently tuned to “who needs a bit of kindness?”

Over the years, that’s meant people tend to gravitate towards me when they need to talk.
Friends, colleagues, even near-strangers somehow know that I’m a safe place to land. They sense the lack of judgement — the “you can tell me anything” energy that comes from having lived on the sharp end of sensitivity myself. I’ve realised that this is one of the quiet superpowers (a rare occasion where I think that word fits!) of being “too much.” We make space for others to be real, messy, honest — because we know what it feels like to hide.
And if that means I’m the go-to person when someone needs advice, reassurance, or just a bit of compassion… I’ll take that any day.

But of course, there’s another side to all that openness. A while ago, I had a friend I’d only see occasionally — but when we did, our conversations went deep. Not small talk, not “how’s work,” but proper soul-level stuff. The kind of connection where you skip the surface entirely and head straight for the meaning of life. She knew me well, and I knew her. So, when she suddenly stopped replying — no message, no explanation — I was completely thrown. We weren’t in daily contact, but the silence still hit hard. For months, I tormented myself trying to work out what I’d done wrong. Each conversation replayed in my head on a loop, each one another stick to beat myself with. Regretted messages asking, almost begging, to know what I had done and how I could change. Still silence. The checking of messages became an obsession that was pulling me under.

And then, about six months later, I finally got the answer. She told me she’d been going through her own struggles — and that I was, in her words, “emotionally too much.” That hurt but hearing it and having an answer gave me a sense of peace. Because I realised that the ache wasn’t about losing her; it was about the not knowing. And suddenly, I knew. I stopped feeling ashamed for being “too much,” because I understood that it wasn’t about me being wrong — it was about her capacity. I’m exactly where I want and need to be on the muchness scale. It took a while, but I made peace with it. She’s not my person — and that’s okay. 

Because when you live life in full emotional colour, not everyone can handle the brightness.
And that doesn’t mean you need to dim your light. It just means you need to shine where you’re appreciated.

Reframing ‘too much’ as strength (without the superhero cape)

Here’s the truth: the people who change things — in art, activism, business — are almost always the ones who got told they were “too much.”

Think about Greta Thunberg, who, for the record, is one of my absolute favourite humans! Documented as an awesome beacon of neurodiversity, she’s been criticised for caring too much — as though there’s an acceptable, socially approved amount of caring when trying to save the planet. Her emotions, her conviction, her intensity — they make people uncomfortable. And yet, they’ve moved mountains.

Or look at Lady Gaga — “too dramatic.” Richard Branson — “too impulsive.” Every one of them turned “too much” into just enough to make history — and a fair bit of money to boot. I’m not saying I’m a global changemaker (unless crying over my to-do list counts as activism). But it’s worth remembering that feeling deeply isn’t a flaw — it’s power. It’s empathy, creativity, connection, courage. The very things that build communities, fuel businesses, and start revolutions. So no, I’m not going to apologise for caring, crying, or sharing too much. 

I’m retiring the superhero cape, but I’ll keep the intensity — it’s where all the good stuff lives.

So, This Is my unsolicited advice to you

When you catch yourself shrinking, ask: “who am I doing this for?” Notice the moments you call yourself “too emotional” — would you say the same thing to a friend? Find the people who don’t flinch when you’re honest — they’re your real audience.

Take this as your permission slip to feel deeply, speak honestly, and overshare with pride. The world doesn’t need you to shrink. It needs your whole, unfiltered, gloriously emotional self — tears, tangents, and all.

Episode 5 of the Business Oddcast is now live with more of these types of insights and some funny stories.