I Live Loud and Love Big—And I’m Not Sorry

I’m a lot. 

I am. 

I know I am. 

I’ve always known I am. 

I get over-the-top excited about mundane things. I get overly-emotional about mundane things as well. 

I have ten thousand ideas flowing rapidly through my brain at any one point in time. 

I think fast. I speak fast. I type even faster. 

I sing at the top of my lungs whether I’m in church, or sitting alone in my car. I think the world is falling, and then realize maybe I just haven’t had any sleep the last two nights, and I need a glass of water, and everything appears sunny again.

I send 10 text messages in a row. And, oh yes, you’d better believe they are full of exclamation points and emojis. I plan girls’ trips at the drop of a hat. I work really hard to make everything magical. 

I apologize all the time. 

And then I apologize for apologizing. 

I talk way too much. 

I take up too much space. 

I dance anytime music is on—grocery store, car, bank, doesn’t matter. 

I start new things constantly—new hobbies, new projects, new businesses. 

I see clothes that I absolutely HAVE to have. I think every movie I’ve ever watched is the “best ever”. I like every song that comes on the radio, and I rave about them, and I research the lyrics and try to figure out the deeper meaning. I get on one topic and I dive straight in the deep end. I research. I read. I discuss it. With vigor. 

I cry about situations, and then turn around with my next breath and flip the switch and find the ever-elusive silver lining. 

I’m a lot. 

I’m a handful. 

I rarely walk. 

If I’m going somewhere, I run. (Metaphorically-speaking, of course. If I’m literally running, something weird is up.)

When I’m chill, I’m crazy chill. 

But when I’m not—watch out, sister. 

I don’t tiptoe. I jump in without looking back. And I splash water everywhere. I have energy, and I like for energy to be given back to me. 

I used to hate this about myself. Everything I just mentioned made me blame myself, and question myself, and want to be by myself, and also somehow, made me want to be with everyone all the time. I guess because deep down, I wanted their approval to make me feel like I was OK. 

I used to think being too much was my worst quality. I thought it was the reason I was misunderstood and lonely. I thought it was my greatest setback. 

And so I quieted myself up. 

I played small. 

I bottled my excitement. 

I convinced myself to become less. 

BUT I WAS NOT MADE TO BE LESS. 

I am too much, but it’s not my kryptonite. It’s what makes me dynamite. 

I give hard. I forgive hard. I work hard. I laugh hard. I cry hard. I mess up hard, but then I get back up and I keep on moving forward. 

I dream hard. I believe hard.

I live fierce. And I love free. 

There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. 

There is nothing wrong with meeting someone and instantly clicking with them. There is nothing wrong with telling people how much you love them. There is nothing wrong with laughing and crying and feeling other people’s pain. 

If you’re an “a lot” person like I am. If you bounce around from place to place. If it takes a while for you to settle down, and you lie in bed at night wondering what in the world is wrong with you, and oh-my-gosh why did you say “you too” when the waiter told you to enjoy your meal. That’s such an odd thing to say. 

It’s OK. 
You’re OK. 
It’s going to be OK. 

Stop beating yourself up. Stop with the constant worrying that people won’t like you, and start liking yourself. 

Cause, yeah, you’re a lot. 

You’re a lot of love. 
You’re a lot of joy. 
You’re a lot of beauty.

You’re a lot of real. 
You’re a lot of passionate. 
You’re a lot of empathetic. 

You’re a lot of what makes a good friend. You’re a lot of what makes life interesting. 

And you’re also a lot of what this world needs more of. Don’t hide, sister. Don’t shy away. Don’t back down. Don’t try to be someone else. Don’t shrug off your gifts. 

Don’t change. Ever. 

But do breathe, and do at least try to be more on time. And maybe use that planner every once in a while. 

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