Too Muchness

I love romance novels. 

In particular, I love Emily Henry; the acclaimed romance author slowly becoming synonymous with the genre itself. With her books flying off the shelves and garnering movie deals before they're even released, it would be hard to be a reader and not know her name. If you know me in almost any capacity you know I've been singing her praises since I first picked up her debut romance novel, Beach Read in 2021. 

Her books feel lofty, idyllic, colorful, and quirky, yet so entirely grounded. I like to joke that I can't finish one without ugly crying at some point. Up front and on the surface, most of her female characters are very manic pixie. They're loud and opinionated. They have habits that would likely garner side eyes in the real world. Their names are fun and a little off-beat. They wear clothing that you can somehow find pasted all over Pinterest but never in stores. They all somehow have even quirkier friends to even them out. A world of their own, for sure. 

But, roughly two-thirds of the way through her books, you'll find a deep undercurrent of doubt, frustration, grief, and fear. Some of her books deal with the loss of a family member. Some deal with growing up and apart from those you love. Some deal with events that blindly reshape the character's entire existence. All of her characters experience life. All of them are faced with issues that feel like they are not all that far from home.

All of this ranting and raving to say... her first movie came out today.

I loved it. 

It probably would have taken an act of God for me to hate it, but nevertheless I loved it. 

There is a point in the movie where Poppy, the main protagonist, cries, lamenting on how she is always so scared that she is "too much" for people to love.

Basically, Emily Henry found the cheat code to making me cry. 

I've been a "too much" person since I can remember. My entire life has been framed by my rampant emotions, fast talking, and slightly out of pocket quips. I think I've always been exactly myself since I was very, very young. In elementary school, I used to pick out tights with different patterns on each leg, and wear them under a skirt with yet another pattern - a tri-patterened wonder, if you will. I was often compared to the squirrel in Hoodwinked or Doug, the dog from Up. Distractions were frequent and daydreaming even moreso. My parents stuck me in theater classes just to try, long before I ever actually made my way to the stage. I was loud and bossy and had a persistent need to be the center of attention. 

This never felt like too much to me, until roughly high school. As most women do, I started to become socially aware of my place in the world. I wouldn't say I toned myself down to a noticeable extent, but the foundation began to falter. After all, I still chose to sing the national anthem at a soccer game I was playing in. I still chose to participate in musicals where I stood on tables acting drunk and collapsed. I still chose to wear heels to school. I chose to join every club I could just to earn a graduation cord. But I can assure you right here and right now, that every single one of those choices was met with extreme self-doubt. 

I still think about that national anthem and how pitchy it was, and how my timing was off because I wasn't expecting a delay. I still think about that one time I performed Cinderella and one of my classmates threw a pencil at me. I still think about my failed run for class president. I still think about how insane I was for putting on boots with a 3 inch heel at 7:00AM. 

I found myself very, very alone senior year, almost like I was starting fresh. I didn't feel like my friends liked me anymore due to leaving the soccer team for a failed pursuit at theater. I was in a weird in between where I felt too sporty for my theater friends and too theater for my sporty friends (hello Glee?). I didn't really know what I was doing, ever, and it was easy to attribute my personality for my personal losses. I beat myself up over this for years. Pathetically, I was in therapy at 21 years old discussing my grievances from four years prior. It left a larger stain on my heart than I would like to admit.

College was, naturally, a bit easier. The world was a bit wider and the people I surrounded myself with were, by-and-large, also mildly irritating artsy kids (said with love). I have countless videos of myself in rehearsal, hooting and hollering with the best of them. My love for dress up was exacerbated by themed parties and costume shop hangouts. I didn't feel too much in my little theater major bubble I created. Only when I went into the real world - group projects, dating apps, work, did I occasionally have out of body moments where I looked down and thought to myself, "Oh my gooodddddd. What is she doing?" 

In 2024, one of my friends informed me that their first impression of me was somewhere along the lines of "that new girl on the soccer team is very confident." This, of course, was met with a roaring laugh from myself. I am SO glad I give off that impression but lord, it couldn't have been more off-target.

I still have out of body moments weekly, if not daily. So much of my time is spent wondering if I said something too crazy, or if I talked too much. I made a goal to be more overdressed this year and then immediately regretting it when I pulled up to the New Year's Eve party wearing a spaghetti strap sheer cami, mini skirt, and glittery hair gems while nearly everyone else was in jeans and a sweater. Sometimes at work, I'll tell my colleagues a story and then sit at my desk for several minutes contemplating if I should have kept it to myself. I talk to my cats more than I talk to a lot of people. I have a weird affinity towards raccoons. I drive around with a sparkly bumper sticker telling people I have rabies. I love the live action Cat in the Hat movie. I'm sometimes lewd. I frequently swear. I still put on 3 inch heels at 7:00AM. 

I thought turning 25 would cure my uncertainty. Shockingly, while it maybe helped a tiny, tiny bit, I am still myself, just a year older. Now, at almost 26, my goal is to lean into being too much. I want to dress more colorfully. I want to lean into being weird. I want to go out more and dance more and sing at open mic nights. I want to be spontaneous and learn to live in the moment. I want to be that confident girl that my friend assumed I was. And, as the icing on the cake, I want to feel authentic in being that. 

I see so much of myself in Poppy. I'm frequently terrified of being alone, both platonically and romantically because of my muchness. When I think of my personality I teter somewhere between feeling too annoying for anyone and also being the perfect amount of something for everyone. I love that Emily Henry writes complicated women sandwiched between the picturesque shores of Lake Michigan and the bustling streets of New York City (the infamous Lake Erie/Washington, DC sandwich is very similar, and many say it's just as good). I love that she cares more for her character's growth than their relationship. I love how her books make me a little bit heavier, and then a lot-a-bit lighter. With that said, you can find me, in the good year 2026 having my very own year of insane muchness. Those who are meant to surround me will stand by me and/or find me. What is meant for me will (hopefully) come. 

Watch People We Meet on Vacation. 

Not sponsored (duh).

Toodles,

Sam

P.S. If you're ever curious, I almost exclusively write my pieces listening to the song "On the Nature of Daylight" by Max Richter. Depressing choice. Yikes. But this video below isn't depressing at all!