You Are Not Too Much: Why We Hide Our True Selves and How We Begin to Heal

Megan Carling
Jun 13
5 min read

Silhouette of a person standing in a field of tall grass at dusk, gazing into a cloudy sky. The scene evokes quiet reflection and emotional solitude.

Why do we hide our humanness?

There’s a quiet ache that lives in so many of us—the sense that we are hiding. That there are parts of ourselves we keep tucked away: our fears, our anger, our sadness, our need.

Why?

Why do we pretend it's all perfect—striving to achieve the unachievable—when at our very core, we are flawed, messy, and human?

To explore this question is to walk into the heart of what it means to be human—and what it means to feel safe, seen, and loved.

I’ve lived much of my life performing a version of myself that felt more acceptable. I smiled even when I was breaking. I stayed composed when I really needed to fall apart. And for a long time, I thought that was just what it meant to be a person—alive in the world, trying to hold it all together, believing that composure was the price of belonging. But underneath that mask was a desperate need to just be… human.

And when I couldn’t keep it all together—when the tears came too easily or I needed more than I felt allowed to—I didn’t just feel exposed. I felt wrong. Different. Like there was something deeply unacceptable about me. That belief—that being human made me too much—was a wound I carried quietly for years. And if I’m honest, I still feel it at times. The ache that wonders, "Is this part of me still too much? Too tender? Too real?" But now I try to meet that ache with gentleness instead of shame.

Because We Were Taught It Wasn’t Safe

Dr. Gabor Maté, a physician and renowned trauma expert, teaches that from a young age, children are forced to choose between two essential needs: authenticity and attachment.

If expressing our true emotions or needs threatened our bond with caregivers—if we were shamed, ignored, or punished—we learned to abandon parts of ourselves. We learned that in order to be loved, we had to be good, agreeable, quiet. So we adapted. We survived. But in doing so, we began to disappear from ourselves.

“The child’s tragic choice is between the need to be authentic and the need to be loved.” — Gabor Maté

I see this in my own life, especially in childhood. I remember trying to “be easy,” to not cry too loud, to not rock the boat. I thought if I kept my feelings small, I would be more lovable. That belief stayed with me far into adulthood—until it didn’t serve me anymore.

Because We Associate Vulnerability with Shame

According to researcher Brené Brown, shame is the fear of disconnection: the belief that if people really knew us, they would leave. Vulnerability becomes dangerous. So we hide our struggles, our doubts, our imperfections.

“Shame derives its power from being unspeakable.” — Brené Brown

I’ve felt this in my bones. I can’t count how many times I’ve tucked my truth behind a polite smile or shifted the conversation away from what was real. Shame has a way of convincing us that being human makes us unworthy. But I’m learning—slowly—that our vulnerability is not what disconnects us. It’s what calls people in.

Because Society Rewards the Mask

From a cultural perspective, we’re taught early on that emotions are inconvenient. That success equals stoicism. That "strength" means hiding pain.

We learn to perform rather than to feel. Achievement becomes our armor. But in the process, we lose connection with the most vital parts of ourselves.

I’ve worn that armor. I’ve chased productivity to outrun my pain. I’ve been praised for being composed, efficient, dependable—even when I was falling apart inside. The world claps for the mask. But it doesn’t heal us.

Because Our Inner Child Is Still Scared

Tara Brach, psychologist and meditation teacher, calls it the trance of unworthiness — a deep, unconscious belief that something is wrong with us. This belief doesn’t vanish with age. Instead, it drives us to continue hiding, even from ourselves.

In moments of stress or vulnerability, our nervous system reverts to those early protective patterns: freezing, people-pleasing, perfectionism.

I’ve come to recognize that the part of me that gets reactive or afraid isn’t broken—it’s young. She’s trying to protect me with the tools she learned long ago. Now, I try to meet her with gentleness and whisper: “You’re safe now. I see you. You belong.”

Healing begins when we turn toward those frightened inner parts and whisper, “You belong. Even this.”

Because We Forgot That Being Human Is Not a Problem to Solve

Over time, we became so good at pretending that we forgot it was pretending.

But our humanness—our sensitivity, our grief, our joy, our longing—isn’t what disqualifies us. It’s what connects us.

As Alice Miller, a pioneering voice in childhood trauma, wrote:

“The true opposite of depression is not gaiety or absence of pain, but vitality—the freedom to experience spontaneous feelings.”

Somewhere along the way, I began believing that to be “well” meant being happy all the time. But real wellness, for me, has meant reclaiming the full spectrum of what I feel—and allowing it all to exist without judgment.

We hide our humanness not because we are broken, but because at some point, it felt safer to be small.

The Invitation to Return

Back view of a woman lifting her arms toward the sky in bright morning light. The gesture suggests freedom, release, and emotional empowerment.

Reclaiming our humanness doesn’t mean tearing down every wall overnight. It means:

Acknowledging the wisdom in the ways we coped.
Practicing self-compassion for the parts we’ve hidden.
Creating relationships where it is safe to be real.
Relearning that we don’t have to earn love through perfection.

As Gabor Maté reminds us:

“The essence of trauma is disconnection from the self.”

What does this really mean?

It means that trauma isn't just what happened to us—it’s what happened inside us as a result. It’s the way we learned to cut off from our own feelings, silence our own truth, abandon our inner knowing just to survive. Disconnection becomes the strategy. We numb. We perform. We disconnect from the messy, aching, beautiful parts of ourselves that felt unsafe to show.

And the healing? It’s not about fixing those parts—it’s about reclaiming them. About coming back home to ourselves, gently, again and again.

Healing is not about fixing what is broken. It is about remembering who we were before we learned to hide.

And I’m still learning. Still practicing. Still showing up—with my shaking hands and open heart—to say: this is me. And if you’re doing that too, you’re not alone.

Let’s be human together.

Reflection Invitation & Meditation Prompt:

What part of you have you felt you needed to hide in order to be loved, accepted, or safe?

What would it feel like to let that part breathe—even just a little—today?

You don’t need to fix it or explain it. Just notice. Honor it. Let your humanness be seen, even by you.

Meditation Prompt:

Sit quietly for a few minutes. Place one hand over your heart. Breathe.

Ask gently: What part of me feels unseen right now?

As feelings arise—sadness, tension, fear, longing—offer them your presence, not your judgment. Try whispering: