I’m the type of person that gets easily overwhelmed.
Not just the “bit stressed” kind of overwhelmed — but the kind where too much noise, too many messages, too many voices all hit me at once and I feel like I’m drowning.
If more than one person is talking at the same time, or I’m trying to concentrate and people won’t take the hint, it all becomes too much.
And if I’ve taken time to reply to a message and then suddenly get bombarded with more… that’s it. My system just says: nope.
When overwhelm sets in, one of two things usually happens.
I either get flustered and frustrated — crying or snapping out of sheer overstimulation.
Or I go the other way completely… I freeze.
I stop doing anything. I withdraw, shut down, and the list of things I should be doing just piles up while I do nothing about any of it.
And when it comes to friendships and relationships — well, I’ve always struggled there.
I need low-maintenance people in my life.
People who won’t take it personally if I disappear for a bit.
People who understand that I might take 5 to 7 business days (minimum!) to reply to a message. And that I won’t be apologising for that anymore.
If you’re in my life, you probably already know this: I may not always be present, but when it really matters, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.
I’ve spent so much of my life pouring myself into others. Showing up when they needed me, often at the cost of my own wellbeing.
And the truth? That kind of giving isn’t always reciprocated.
People don’t always treat you how you would treat them. That’s a hard pill to swallow — but it’s one I’ve had to.
I’ve never been a high-maintenance friend. I’ve never needed constant company. I’m okay with a message here and there, the odd check-in. Just knowing someone’s there if I need them. That’s always been enough for me.
But since things in my life changed — since I got ill — I’ve seen a different side of people.
I’m not talking about people not noticing I was unwell at first. I take responsibility for hiding that. I’m talking about what happened after.
After I said my “last” goodbyes.
After the hospital stays.
After the dust settled.
I can count on one hand the number of people who’ve actually checked in. Who’ve asked to meet up, who’ve texted just to say hi.
Some checked in for a while, then stopped.
Some haven’t been in touch at all.
And that hurts. More than I want to admit.
But it’s also been clarifying. It’s shown me who really sees me. Who’s willing to stick around through the messy parts, not just the good ones.
I don’t say any of this for sympathy. I say it because I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.
So, if you’re reading this and thinking, “That’s me too,” — I see you.
You’re not broken, you’re just carrying more than people realise.
You’re not flaky — you’re surviving.
You’re not too much — you’re just trying to manage life the best way you know how.
And maybe, just maybe, we need to stop apologising for that.
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