On Playing It Safe (And Why I’m Done Trying)

Or: How do you stand out if you're terrified of being seen?

Playing it safe is just failure with a longer timeline.
You don’t get applause for being invisible—you get forgotten.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about risk.

Not the dramatic, leap-off-a-cliff kind.
The quiet kind. The kind that looks like restraint, politeness, and being "considerate."

The kind that whispers: Maybe don’t post that. Maybe that scene’s too much. Maybe people will stop caring if you show them too much of yourself.

Whenever I hold back a sentence, a scene, a truth, it chips away at something.
My work. My voice. My spine.

And if I'm being honest?
That fear isn't new. It's practically muscle memory.

From Campfire Writing: “Strong Female Character” shouldn’t be a trope because women are just as capable of inner and outer strength as any other gender.

Introducing: The Art of Being Too Much

This is the start of a series.
A reclamation.
A love letter to every person who's been told they were too intense, too emotional, too ambitious, too loud, too soft, too dramatic, too weird, too everything.

Too much for the room.

Because I was raised on that idea.

As a kid, I was “too sensitive,” “too talkative,” “too much of a dreamer.”
Like my feelings were a fire hazard. Like my imagination was a problem to be managed.

Later, it was partners who said it. Softer, slicker, but no less cutting.
I was “too in the spotlight,” “too friendly,” “too emotional,” “too empathic.”
(One ex told me I made people uncomfortable just by being passionate about a specific topic. Like passion was some kind of threat.)

So I learned to edit myself.
Make my emotions bite-sized.
Dream quieter. Speak softer. Laugh like no one was listening.

And now? That editing reflex follows me everywhere.
Especially in my writing.

Let Me Tell You About Last Week

I wrote a scene that gutted me. A character cracked open, ugly and real, bleeding through the page. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t flattering. It felt like the truth.

I hovered over "Save" for five full minutes.

And then I deleted it.

Not because it was bad.
Because it was honest.

Because that old voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like a disappointed parent or an uncomfortable partner—whispered: This is too much. People won’t like this. They won’t like you.

Let’s Call It What It Is: Fear

Not fear of failure. I’ve failed before. I survived.

This is fear of exposure.
Fear that being seen will equal being rejected.
Fear that someone will look at what I wrote, or who I am, and say, “No thanks.”

And the temptation to pre-reject myself? Oh, it’s strong.

I know how to stay small. I was raised in it. Rewarded for it.
But it’s a slow suffocation.
You can’t write something that matters if you’re constantly trying not to offend, not to upset, not to stir too much dust.

The Pull to Stay Small

When no one knows your name, it’s easy to play it safe.

Polish the edges.
Keep the weird tucked away.
Stay on-brand, whatever that even means.

But here’s the truth: safe is a straitjacket with a smiley face.
If I keep shrinking to fit it, I’ll vanish completely.

You don’t build a connection by being agreeable.
You build it by being real.

And sometimes, real is a little too much.

And if they don’t like it, let them leave.

I’m Not Here to Be Another Beige Blip in Your Feed

I’m writing my first novel. Self-publishing it.
Every decision is mine: plot twists, character arcs, cover design, existential dread.

It’s exhilarating.
And about as lonely as yelling into a void and hoping it echoes back with applause.

Some days, I catch myself trying to look “put together.” Like I know what I’m doing.
But behind the curtain?

It’s grief. Shame. Hunger. Survival.
Not just the spice and steam, but the scars underneath.

I’m not writing for the people who want easy.
I’m writing for the ones who want real.
The ones who’ve been too much, too loud, too honest, too everything and kept going anyway.

If I sand it down so no one gets splinters, what’s the point? A flavourless thing no one can choke on but no one can taste, either. Unoffensive. Unmemorable. Unfelt.

Photo by mana5280 on Unsplash

I’m Not Here to Be Safe

I want to write scenes that leave bruises.
Characters who burn things down and rebuild with bloody hands.
Stories that ask questions I don’t have tidy answers to.

Yes, it’ll cost me.
Unfollows. Silence. People who ghost when it gets uncomfortable.

But playing it safe costs more.
It costs me.

If I’m going to bleed into these pages, then damn it, I want it to matter.

I want someone out there to read a line and whisper, “Shit. That’s me.”

No Grand Epiphany Here

Just a flicker that refuses to die.

Be bold.
Be strange.
Be uncomfortably honest.

Even when it makes your hands shake.
Especially then.

Because someone out there is waiting for your voice to cut through the noise.
And they won’t hear it if you’re whispering.

Let’s Get Real

When’s the last time someone told you you were too much?

What did they really mean?

When did you start shrinking to survive, and what part of you is still in hiding?

This isn’t just a post. It’s the beginning of a conversation.
A whole damn series.

The Art of Being Too Much.

We’re reclaiming it. One raw story at a time.

—Nicky
(Trying to be 5% braver, 10% weirder, and 100% too much…on purpose.)