You Used to Be Much Muchier…

The hammock doesn’t let you lie. That’s the first thing you should know. You can’t sit in a hammock like you sit in a chair, all neat and polite. You either commit to the sway, or you end up on your backside in the dirt. Which, let’s be honest, has happened to me more than once. But maybe that’s the whole lesson about muchness—you can’t half-commit. You’re either in it, or you’re on the ground wondering why you thought you could tiptoe through life.

I think about this every time I feel myself shrinking back, apologizing for being “too much.” Too much woman, too much dreamer, too much talker, too much feeler. Too much of a lot of things. And then I remember the Mad Hatter telling Alice, “You’ve lost your muchness. You used to be much muchier.”

That line hits like a truth bomb in disguise. Because isn’t that exactly what happens to us? We’re born full of muchness—loud, curious, fearless. But somewhere along the way, life asks us to tone it down. We start sanding our edges so we don’t rub anyone the wrong way. We learn to edit ourselves into quieter, smaller versions. Until one day, we look in the mirror and wonder where the color went.

I know I’ve lost my muchness before. Motherhood years. Survival years. Years of showing up for everyone else so much that I forgot to show up for myself. My life got practical, sensible, efficient. Which, let’s be clear, are not the same as alive.

It took walking across the country for me to find it again. Mile by mile, hammock swing by hammock swing, cabin by creek bed by caboose. Muchness came back in pieces.

It was in the strangers who opened their doors, fed me, and told me their stories as if I’d always belonged at their table. It was in the cabin I slept in where the wood creaked like it had its own memory, reminding me that shelter doesn’t need to be perfect to be holy. It was in the nights I camped by a creek bed, where the water hummed louder than my doubts. And of course, it was in the red caboose with the clawfoot tub, where I laughed so hard at the absurdity of bathing in a train car that my sides hurt.

The people along the way saw my muchness before I even realized I’d called it back. They didn’t ask me to be smaller. They didn’t flinch when I showed up sweaty, road-worn, and full of impossible stories. They welcomed it. Because maybe muchness isn’t about being too much at all. Maybe it’s about reminding other people that they’re allowed to be much muchier, too.

Here’s the thing: losing your muchness doesn’t kill you, but it does make you invisible. It turns life into a checklist instead of an adventure. Reclaiming it, though—that’s oxygen. That’s technicolor. That’s the difference between existing and actually living.

So the next time you feel like apologizing for being too much, stop. Think about Alice. Think about the Mad Hatter. Think about hammocks that won’t let you perch politely. Think about creek beds, cabooses, strangers with open doors, and laughter that spills out sideways. Think about the fact that the world doesn’t need another smaller version of you.

The world needs your muchness. Much more. Much muchier.

And if someone can’t handle that, let the hammock do its job. Trust me—they’ll land on their ass, and you’ll still be swaying.