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Louise Thomas
Editor
I always want more, not less.” This one simple sentence did more to help me rebuild my self-esteem and confidence than years of self-help books, strident pep talks over glasses of wine and obligatory self-care bubble baths. It is, quite possibly, the most revolutionary, radical and – yes – romantic thing that anyone has ever said to me.
Timing was key. The man who introduced me to those magical six words would say them every time I apologised, something I initially did all the time. I apologised for being, by turns, too loud, too emotional, too needy, too affectionate, too excited, too happy, too sad. I said sorry for laughing too much. For crying too much. For hugging too hard and dancing too exuberantly. I kept on saying sorry for being “too” everything, and this man kept on gently rebutting me, until eventually it took effect. One day I stopped apologising for the crime of existing as myself in the world.
It’s not just a “me” thing, this desperate need to be reassured that one is the correct “amount” of person. Every woman I’ve ever told about the “I always want more” line has responded in a way that’s let me know she gets it, deep down in her bones. That she understands the transformational power it embodies. The writers of new hit Netflix show Nobody Wants This understand it too, as evidenced by one subtle yet memorable scene that has been doing the rounds on social media. Women have been sharing it, again and again, with the words: “Yes. This. This.”
Some context if you haven’t seen the series yet: the setup may sound a little hacky – a rabbi and a sex podcaster walk into a party, hit it off and fall in love, oy vey! – but bear with it. Rarely has a Netflix series had this much chemistry between its two leads. Kristen Bell, powerhouse star of The Good Place and gold-plated purveyor of rizz, and Adam Brody, The OC’s Seth Cohen all grown up and ready to make millennials lose their minds with lust, sizzle with palpable mutual attraction in a way that elevates it to that rare thing: a modern-day romcom that actually works.
While the format is buoyed up by witty jokes and a brilliant supporting cast of loveable oddballs, arguably the main reason that the show is cutting through is the poignancy of its deeper moments, peppered throughout the 10 episodes. Beautifully observed, these scenes explore the very real vulnerability that comes with starting an intimate relationship as a broken, flawed and scared adult who’s been hurt too many times before. In the exchange that’s being shared with such emphatic praise, Brody’s character Noah is trying to get Joanne (Bell) to open up; he asks her what her deepest fear is. Terrified by the prospect, she turns around so that she doesn’t have to look at him.
“Here’s the truth… My mom is really emotional and it always pushed my dad away, and I’m not saying that’s what made him gay but it certainly didn’t keep him straight. And I always tried really hard not to be like that. And yes, sometimes I do weird s***, and I can be impulsive and obsessive and I did Google your ex-girlfriend and I’m really sorry that you had to see that… My biggest fear is a bad facelift but I think I’m realising an even bigger fear is this: that I will become emotionally dependent on a guy who will one day realise that I’m too much and break my heart.”
I cannot watch Bell deliver that final line without feeling my throat constrict. It’s like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, this voicing of the primal fear that haunts every woman in her core. For all that we’ve made great strides in “leaning in”, “finding our voice”, “stepping into our sovereignty” and all of that, women’s internal suspicion that we are simply “too much” for anyone to cope with – that, really, we need to rein in every part of ourselves to be deemed palatable and loveable – is deeply ingrained.
It’s the result of hundreds, if not thousands, of years of patriarchy. Hundreds, if not thousands, of years of being told our emotions were too unwieldy, our needs too great, our desires too potent. No one, we were told, wanted a hysterical woman; a woman who was bawdy or loud or uncouth; a woman who was too knowingly sexy or had too much of a “good time”; a woman who took up too much space, physically or otherwise. We’re fighting against millennia of indoctrination that dictated we should shrink down to a more manageable size in every conceivable sphere of life. Even as we keep pushing on towards equality, redrawing boundaries and gender norms, it can feel nigh on impossible to break free of the “too much” lie – especially when it comes to romantic relationships. And yet it is, indeed, a lie.
It can feel nigh on impossible to break free of the ‘too much’ lie – especially when it comes to romantic relationships
In Nobody Wants This, Noah’s response to Joanne’s revelation is the Platonic ideal of what a man should do when a woman divulges a usually kept back part of herself in all its rawness. He steps forward and holds her from behind before she’s even finished her monologue; when asked, fearfully, if her outburst was the most unattractive thing he’s ever seen, he replies: “No, the most attractive. I want this. I want all of this.” It’s no wonder viewers are currently caught in a collective, Brody-centric swoon.
“I always want more, not less.” It’s no exaggeration to say that those six words changed my life, once I truly started believing them. But we shouldn’t need to wait for a partner to say them in order to accept and embrace who we are, and to exist in this world without apology. So I’m telling you now, just in case you need to hear it: go forth and be you, as hard as you can. Always be more, not less.
