Am I Trying Too Hard?

On being too much, 'you're welcome' energy, and desperation

Feb 21, 2025

I saw this quote on Instagram the other day that took me on a deep dive.

When I first started dabbling in personal development I was exposed to many conversations around ‘worthiness’. There’s a predominant idea that you’re playing small because you don’t feel worthy.

You’re doubting yourself. You don’t think you deserve it. It’s a wound of unworthiness.

And I thought, oh okay. Must be.

But the truth is… that never quite landed.

It wasn’t until years later, in a Human Design training, that something clicked. I was surrounded by a mix of people—some with defined egos, some undefined—and my pattern-seeking brain couldn’t help but notice a something emerging.

If worthiness is the spectrum tied to the ego center, then it seemed (at least in this little room) that the undefined egos tilted toward “I’m not enough,” while the defined egos carried something else entirely—“I’m too much.”

Now, this isn’t in the official texts. Ra never said this (as far as I know). But the more I sat with it, the more it felt true.

As someone with a defined ego, I don’t struggle too often with feeling like I’m not enough—

But I was—sometimes still am—terrified of being perceived as too much.

When I think back through my childhood, there’s so much of this fear woven throughout. Downplaying my intelligence to try and fit in, keeping quiet when someone said something completely wrong as to not rock the boat. Many of my ‘good girl’ tendencies were this in disguise. Don’t call in too much attention, don’t be too dramatic, don’t take up too much space, don’t be too much. This contradicted greatly with my deeper desire to be…

Seen. Known. Understood.

But we’ll get to that in a second.

This unraveling of too much has taken me years, and I’m not perfect at it still.

But one thing I’ve come to learn, accept, and integrate is this:

Maybe I am too much.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because when I stopped making myself smaller, softer, more palatable—when I stopped filtering my energy for the comfort of others—I realized:

My energy is a privilege.

(and for the record, yours is too.)

I call this “You’re Welcome Energy.”

It’s the energy of no longer apologizing for your fullness. Of knowing you don’t have to prove your worth, convince anyone to value your presence, or water yourself down to be digestible.

It’s the energy of “I’m here. I’m whole. You’re welcome.”

I don’t think this combination is rare or unique—in fact, it’s probably a combination most women come equipped with as a safety measure in a world that’s never really loved us.

But just to spell it out:

When you take knowing you’re actually really fucking powerful, being empathetic and intuitive enough to know how your energy impacts others, societal conditioning, and survival instincts and package it all up…

You get palatable.

You get make it easier. Nicer. More digestible.

I think that idea is something most of us have come to understand.

But what I’ve realized is that for me, it wasn’t always about survival in the obvious ways—but it was about belonging. About recognition.

As a human design Projector, recognition isn’t just nice—it’s base needs. It’s baked into the whole system. Human Design teaches that Projectors thrive when they’re seen, heard, understood—and invited in.

But there’s a shadow side to that—because what happens when you’re not being seen? When you’re not invited?

You become desperate for it.

A clawing hunger inside of you rages for it.

And you become willing to do almost anything to get it.

You try too fucking hard.

In physics, energy is never lost; it only changes form, right? But humans? We leak energy all the time. We hand it over, sometimes without even knowing we’re doing it—through over-explaining, through endless availability, through shrinking ourselves to fit a space that was never designed for us, through clawing desperately as scraps of recognition that aren’t even truly being seen.

There’s this concept I am fascinated by called energy efficiency–it’s an ecological idea. It’s about how much energy an organism expends to survive and thrive. The most efficient species aren’t the ones who hustle the hardest. They’re the ones who’ve adapted to expend the least energy for the maximum result—think a big cat chasing a prey, but resting the rest of the day.

I think about that a lot when it comes to Projector energy.

We’re not designed to be engines; we’re designed to be lighthouses. Steady. Guiding. Seen from a distance without having to scream desperately, “Hey! I’m over here!”

Lighthouses have one job: to be seen. They don’t chase ships. They don’t flicker brighter for the “right” ones. They stand tall, constant. The ones who need the light find it.

But me? I often was a floodlight. Casting my energy wide, hoping it would land somewhere—anywhere. Hoping someone, anyone, would see me, hear me, understand me.

And here’s the sneaky part: I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I wasn’t burnt out. I wasn’t miserable. But I was leaking energy everywhere—like leaving a faucet running. Not enough to flood the house, but enough to rack up the bill.

Over the past six years of being in my human design experiment, it started to click more and more often when this was happening—when I was leaking.

It never comes with fireworks or some dramatic breaking point.

It’s always quiet—a little truth landing in my lap. Sometimes it’s a kind voice and other times it’s a sassy quip, but the message is the same:

You’re trying way too fucking hard.

And I have to be so clear—it’s not in the obvious ways. It’s not that my schedule becomes suddenly packed, or I can’t catch a break during the day. It’s not this obvious conversation about overworking or burnout. It’s energetic.

It’s giving away power.

It’s picking up your phone and looking at your DMs waiting for someone to reach out.

It’s tweaking a hook more than necessary to ‘catch their attention.’

It’s adding more and more nuance to something in hopes ‘they understand.’

When it happens, the work is the same:

Pull my energy back.

Come back home.

Reconnect with who I am.

Declutter my thoughts.

There’s a reason so many spiritual traditions emphasize emptiness. In Buddhism, the concept of śūnyatā—emptiness—isn’t about void or lack. It’s about potential. The space that allows something new to emerge.

But this idea of emptiness isn’t just spiritual.

In physics, a vacuum isn’t lifeless—it’s a field of pure potential, particles flickering in and out of existence. In art, negative space isn’t absence—it’s what gives form, focus, meaning. Even in nature, there’s ecological succession—old ecosystems breaking down so something new can grow.

When I stopped flooding the room with energy—when I let the space exist—something else emerged. At first? It felt uncomfortable. Like I was missing something.

Because trying too hard is a kind of filler. The energetic equivalent of fast food—cheap, quick, momentarily satisfying.

But real nourishment? That’s slower. It requires space.

Now we could end the essay here, but there’s something that happens when you’re on this journey and it’s worth speaking to because it’ll potentially fuck you up a bit.

This moments of realization feel clear and empowering and bold.

And then guilt starts to seep in.

Because in a world that celebrates selflessness, that tells women to be pleasant and agreeable and accessible, saying, My energy is a privilege feels… bold.

Maybe even *~bitchy~*.

There’s this delicate dance between confidence and cockiness—or at least, that’s what I used to think. The fear of being too much creeps back in here. It’s that old conditioning whispering, “Be smaller. Be softer. Don’t take up too much space.”

And sometimes I’ll drop into that proving place, that floodlight versus lighthouse.

But more and more often, I come to recognize that, that edge?

It doesn’t fucking exist.

It’s not about the energy itself. It’s about how people perceive it.

And perception? To be blunt, that’s on them.

Owning your energy—fully, unapologetically—will make people uncomfortable. It’ll trigger the ones who’ve benefited from your over-availability. It’ll make some people crown you a villain.

But it’ll also be expansive. An offering. An invitation.

Because, like I said before, my energy is a privilege.

And so is yours.

And if seeing me own that invites you into this paradigm, too?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Most days I can hold this energy with ease.

Do things happen that cause wobbles? That cause moments of old patterns resurfacing?

Yeah. I’m human.

But most often I’m locked into this knowing that…

I’m not here to convince you. I’m not here to prove anything.

My energy is a privilege.

Being too much is only a problem if you’re trying to fit into spaces that weren’t designed for you.