Too Everything: Reclaiming the Parts They Tried to Tame
By Michelle Labine, PhD
May 2025
For many later diagnosed or self-identified Autistic women the story does not begins with being misunderstood. We were not seen clearly in the ways we needed and instead we were given labels that slowly shaped how we came to see ourselves. Many of us heard that we were too sensitive, too emotional, too intense, too reactive, or simply too much. Sometimes those messages were spoken directly and sometimes they arrived in subtler forms through eye rolls, sighs, indirect comments, or the slow withdrawal of people who seemed unsure how to meet us.
Over time these experiences taught us to doubt our own instincts. We learned how to perform ease even when we felt unsettled inside. We began to carry ourselves more carefully, softening our reactions, editing our responses, and making ourselves less visible in order to avoid criticism or disconnection. These adjustments often happened gradually so that we did not always notice the cost they carried. We adapted because it helped us stay connected and we continued doing so for years without realizing how much of ourselves we were setting aside in the process.
I was described as moody from a young age not necessarily through harsh language but through the way my emotional shifts were received. There were moments when I was energetic, expressive, and fully engaged, followed by times when I became quiet, withdrawn, or overwhelmed. In actuality, I felt deeply and intensely https://neurolaunch.com/autism-and-emotional-sensitivity/
What others did not see was the accumulation of sensory and emotional input that built beneath the surface. After a full school day filled with social interaction, bright lights, noise, and shifting expectations, my nervous system often reached a point where it needed silence and space in order to recover. When I came home seeking that quiet, the response I often received was confusion or criticism. I was told to watch my tone, to lighten up, or to stop overreacting. In those moments I began to internalize the belief that my feelings themselves were the problem.
This pattern continued into adulthood. I found myself giving everything I had in the spaces I occupied, whether that was work, relationships, caregiving, or the responsibilities that filled my days. I pushed myself to perform competence and maintain stability even when the internal effort required to do so was enormous. Eventually I would reach a point where my energy was depleted and I would withdraw physically, emotionally, or mentally in order to recover. I would burn out, step back for a time, and then begin the cycle again.
For many years I believed this pattern reflected my ‘moody personality’. I assumed I lacked resilience or that I simply could not keep pace with the expectations around me. Only later did I begin to understand that what I was experiencing and that beneath the burnout was a pattern of self-abandonment that had developed as a way of navigating a world that rarely recognized my needs.
When someone is repeatedly told that their emotional responses are too intense or too reactive, the natural response is to suppress those reactions. Many people learn to scan facial expressions, monitor their tone of voice, and hold back their opinions before they are fully formed. An internal filter begins running constantly in the background, asking whether a reaction might be too much for the moment or whether it would be safer to soften it. Even joy can become muted because expressions of excitement or enthusiasm may have once been interpreted as excessive.
Over time this pattern teaches us to put aside our own emotional experiences in real time. We become skilled at making ourselves easier for others to be around even when doing so requires us to disconnect from what we genuinely feel.
Through my own process of late discovery and the conversations I have had with many other women walking similar paths, I have come to understand these experiences differently. The qualities that were once labeled as too much were often expressions of deep attunement. The mood shifts that confused others were frequently signals from a nervous system that needed rest or relief from sensory overload. What appeared to be emotional overreaction was often sensitivity meeting a world that moved too quickly and too loudly to notice what our bodies were trying to communicate.
Recognizing this has changed the way I relate to myself. I no longer see those responses as evidence of instability or weakness. Instead, I understand them as signs of a nervous system that processes the world with depth and intensity. For much of my life I did not have language to explain that experience or permission to honour it.
Today I am learning to offer that permission to myself. This process involves unlearning the shame that once surrounded my emotional life and reclaim the sensitivity that was often misunderstood. Sensitivity can be a form of awareness, and intensity can reflect presence and connection rather than excess.
Rather than responding to our emotions with criticism, we can begin to meet them with compassion and curiosity. Instead of asking why we felt something so strongly, we can recognize that those responses often made sense within the context of our experiences. When we begin to see ourselves clearly in this way, something important shifts. The question changes from whether we are too much to whether we were simply never met with enough understanding.
What emotional labels did I internalize growing up?
Where in my life have I learned to suppress or edit my emotional responses?
What parts of my emotional world feel ready to be reclaimed?
What might it mean to give myself permission to feel and express my emotions differently now?