Too Much

While tidying up my apartment on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I came across a letter I received years ago. Woven into the content was a description of a woman who took on the world to distract herself from what was in front of her. At the time, I read it as a criticism. 

It seemed to imply that I 

did too much, 

committed to too much, 

was too much. 

Fast forward to last year, I found myself still receiving this "feedback." It was no longer in writing and instead was sprinkled throughout conversations. 

It seemed to imply that I 

asked for too much, 

cared too much, 

was too much. 

So, in the spirit of self-development I spent some time reflecting on my life thus far. On competing in the final round of Olympic Team Trials, on traveling to oh so many different pockets of the US and the world to spend time with friends and family, on doubling my salary in tech in under four years, on loving people so much and surviving my heart shattering repeatedly. 

It seemed to imply that I 

lived too much, 

loved too much, 

was too much. 

For all the women who've been told they're too much. 

For all the womyn who've been told they're too much. 

For all the femme who've been told they're too much. 

For all the butch who've been told they're too much. 

For all the sisters who've been told they're too much. 

For all the too much. 

To live life in explosive color 

is civil disobedience. 

We don't lead with warnings, 

we move straight to the threat. 

Like thunder we bellow, we tumble, 

before we spark fire across the skies. 

We are marigolds and sunflowers, 

precious petals absorbing life

directly from the source. 

I, too, would be in awe of our 

graceful curves, sensing 

the power lurking within. 

We serve as touch points, 

foundations for weary feet

and restless souls. 

We literally grant life, 

figuratively nurture it as 

beacons of our communities, 

physically return it when we

enter our final slumber, for

god knows we get too little sleep. 

We feel the tears of the ocean, the

sighs of the rain, the intoxicating

hope of the sky. Our hearts are 

bird calls, we know what it is to fly,

to have our wings reflect hope and 

our bellies shine with radiance. 

We dress in our own skins, coats so

fine even royalty is compelled to

recognize power. They'll respond 

with cages, with lotus flowers, with

ever shifting rules and laws and 

regulations to contain our witchcraft. 

For all the too much. 

For all the sisters who've been told they're too much.

For all the butch who've been told they're too much.

For all the femme who've been told they're too much. 

For all the womyn who've been told they're too much.

For all the women who've been told they're too much.

It is you who taught me to accept the compliment. 

I live too much, love too much, am too much. 

It is you who taught me to accept the compliment. 

I ask for too much, care too much, am too much. 

It is you who I say prayers to, arms folded,

hands clasped, head bowed in acknowledgment. 

I do too much, commit to too much, am too much. 

I am yours, full of gratitude, 

with love, and in remembrance.

I humbly follow the path you blaze. 

And I will strive to be even more 

than,

Too.

Much.