Too Loud, Laura: The Inner Echo of Unworthiness

For much of my life, I have often been labelled as "too loud"—and I mean that in both a figurative and a literal sense. I vividly remember when I was six, receiving a gift that would resonate with me for years: a book titled “Too Loud, Laura”. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quiet herself down.

The choice of this gift was no accident; it was a deliberate reflection of who I was. I was that girl with an oversized personality that took up too much space in the world, whose laughter echoed through rooms and whose voice often overshadowed others. I was undeniably bold, and though I didn’t mean to, I usually made my presence felt far more than I realised.

At age six, I blissfully remained unaware that I should feel insulted. I eagerly poured over the book's pages and chuckled at the striking similarities, embracing the nickname “Too Loud, Laura” with pride. But as the years rolled on and I matured, that once-endearing moniker began to feel like a heavy weight on my shoulders. What had started as playful teasing morphed into a pointed critique, a cautionary tale. My exuberant loudness, which I once expressed with joy and enthusiasm, became a source of discomfort to others—it was no longer seen as a reflection of my spirited nature but rather as a glaring flaw that needed correction.

That narrative seeped into my soul like ink dissolving in clear water, altering how I perceived my existence. I became increasingly conscious of my voice, presence, and every facet of myself. It was as if I was under a spotlight, scrutinised from every angle. Gradually, I began to withdraw into myself, to shrink away from the world, continually questioning how much of my true self could be shared without overwhelming others. Each time I contemplated this, the answer seemed to echo back at me, revealing that all of me was deemed too much. In response, I embarked on a journey of self-reinvention, reshaping my identity to fit within the confines of those perceived limitations.

Proving Myself, Losing Myself

That was the moment the seeds of my self-sabotage were sown. I carried this heavy belief that my loudness and exuberance, my “too-muchness,” were qualities that others merely tolerated instead of cherished. This notion drove me to work tirelessly, like a performer desperate for applause, striving to overcome the perception of being a burden. I became consumed by the urgent need to prove my worth to those around me, eager to demonstrate that I was not just someone to endure but a genuine friend, a loyal partner, and a person they should actively desire in their lives.

Yet, amid all my frantic efforts to validate my existence, I failed to pause and reflect on a crucial question: Did I truly value them?

I spent years going out of my way for people who didn’t reciprocate the same energy. I’d be there for them repeatedly, hoping my presence would earn me a valued place in their lives. When those friendships felt unfulfilling—not genuine or mutual—I didn't take the time to reflect on whether the relationship was beneficial for me. Instead, I turned inward, as I often did.

"I must be the problem," I thought. "If I were a better friend or a likeable person, they'd be willing to meet me halfway."

The Mirror That Never Reflects

Friendships became intricate mirrors reflecting my deepest insecurities. I sought validation from others, yearning for them to affirm my worth and show me that I was enough just as I was. Yet, I found only a distorted reflection instead of a clear image. I poured my heart and soul into these relationships—investing my time, energy, and unwavering support—hoping such generosity would foster a meaningful connection. But when the give-and-take remained lopsided, I didn't recognise it as a flaw in the friendship. Instead, I internalised it as a personal failing, believing the imbalance stemmed from something fundamentally wrong within me.

Whenever I left a conversation feeling empty and unfulfilled, I took it as evidence of my unworthiness. When friends failed to return my enthusiasm or effort, I quickly convinced myself I didn’t merit their attention or affection. I constructed elaborate narratives of rejection and abandonment, even when no one around me ever voiced those sentiments.

Eventually, as the emotional weight of these one-sided relationships became unbearable, I cut ties. This act wasn’t infused with a sense of empowerment or liberation; it was born from a place of pain and the desperate need for self-preservation. In my mind, severing those connections felt like a way to reclaim control, but it was a form of self-sabotage. I wasn’t simply protecting myself from further hurt; I was inadvertently punishing myself, reinforcing the very beliefs I sought to escape.

Rewriting the Story

I once viewed being “Too Loud, Laura” as a heavy burden, a label that marked me as unlikable and unworthy in the eyes of others. However, as time passes, my perspective is shifting. That loudness, vibrant energy, that essence of being too much is not a flaw; it’s an exquisite part of who I am. The real issue wasn't that I was too loud; I allowed the world around me to convince me that I had to tone myself down and stifle my true self.

Now, I'm on a journey to flip the script, reclaim my narrative and stop proving my worth to those who haven’t shown me the same respect or appreciation. I'm learning to ask crucial questions: Do I truly value these people in my life? Do they bring joy and positivity to my existence? These questions would have seemed revolutionary to the little girl who clung to the pages of Too Loud, Laura, but today, they serve as my guiding principles, illuminating my path.

Unlearning the gripping patterns of self-sabotage is a challenging endeavour. Staying in friendships and relationships until I can honestly assess their value is daunting; it’s too easy to sever connections at the first hint of discomfort. However, I am slowly cultivating the strength to embrace that discomfort, recognising it as a vital part of my growth rather than an escape route.

Most importantly, I am discovering the beauty in my loudness, unapologetic too-muchness, and every facet of my being. I am learning to see myself through my clear lens rather than through the warped mirrors others have held up to me.

Because being “Too Loud, Laura” was never the actual problem. The real challenge lay in believing I needed to conform to anything less than my authentic self.