By Rose L Hughes, Bened Life Neurodiversity & Disability Specialist
When I was about seven years old, I accidentally killed my hamster.
His name was Dusty. I adored him in the way that only a child can—with a kind of unfiltered, all-consuming love. I used to dance around the living room with him perched on my head, singing songs, squeezing him close to my face. I was in my own little world, as I often was as a child.
I would grit my teeth, make little growling noises, and hold him tighter and tighter. Not out of anger. Out of love—an overwhelming, body-shaking kind of love I didn’t know how to regulate.
And one day, I squeezed him too tightly. He died in my hands.
I remember feeling so confused, ashamed, and heartbroken. I didn’t understand what had happened. I placed him back in his cage and ran to my room. When my parents came home, I let them believe he’d just passed away in his sleep. It wasn’t until years later—when I was about 10 or 11—that I told them the truth.
I carried that guilt for decades. I wet the bed for years. I once even confessed the story to a priest, desperate for some kind of forgiveness I didn’t know how to give myself. Of course, at that time, and not yet diagnosed, no one could explain why to me. It was heavy to carry.
I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until early teens, and my autism diagnosis wasn’t until adulthood, 23. But long before the labels, I knew there was something different in the way I felt things. Something bigger, louder, harder to control. Like with the control music has over me. And I lived in a house where no one noticed—or if they did, they didn’t know how to help. I shouldn’t have been left alone so often, so young.
And I shouldn’t have had to live with the belief that I was dangerous because I loved too much.
The sweet side of cute aggression
I think it’s important here to add that, despite its intense name and my difficult recollections, cute aggression often shows up in beautifully human—and hilariously relatable—ways.
Think about the way people squeal when they see an adorable kitten or puppy, or that friend who physically clutches their chest when watching videos of ducklings in a line. It’s why we say things like “You’re so cute I can’t stand it!” or “I’m gonna squish your face!” while simultaneously smothering a loved one in affection.
In everyday life, cute aggression can even become a kind of shared language between people. Pet names, silly voices, the instinct to cuddle harder when overwhelmed with love—these are all soft expressions of it. It can be a marker of safety and connection: to feel that kind of explosive joy and to trust someone enough to show it.
What I didn’t know then
It wasn’t until many years after what happened with Dusty, that I stumbled across a blog—just like this one—that explained the concept of cute aggression. Suddenly, everything made sense.
Cute aggression is a term researchers use to describe the urge to squeeze, bite, growl at, or even cry over something unbearably cute—despite having no desire to actually harm it. It’s the brain’s strange, self-soothing way of dealing with overwhelming positive emotions. When the emotional system goes into overdrive, the nervous system balances it with an opposite physical response—one that looks aggressive but actually isn’t.
Researchers have found that people experience cute aggression most often when exposed to baby animals or baby-like features—chubby cheeks, big eyes, round faces. You can read the study here, or watch this endearing animation that explains it clearly in 5 minutes.
The BBC also puts it plainly: "Cute aggression doesn’t mean you actually want to hurt something.” It means your brain is flooded with too much love and doesn’t know where to put it.
Cute aggression & neurodivergent folks: It can hit even harder
For many of us who are Autistic, ADHD, or both (hi, AuDHD friends), emotional and sensory regulation works differently. Feelings—whether good or bad—can arrive like a tidal wave. So when we’re exposed to something especially cute, or someone we adore, the overload can be intense.
And for some of us, that intensity gets physically expressed in ways we might not always understand or control.
When I was younger, I didn’t just feel this with animals. I felt it with my friends, my partners. I’d hug too hard. Bury myself in them. Grit my teeth. Make noises. It was always this mix of “I love you SO much I want to hold you forever!” and “My body doesn’t know what to do with this feeling.”
Even now, at 31, I still feel it. I have a cat who I love deeply—but I’ve learned how to channel those feelings safely. I’ll grit my teeth and squeeze the duvet next to me. I’ll shout “I JUST LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH” in a voice my close people all recognize. I’m not hurting anything. I’ve just learned how to redirect the intensity.
This Isn’t Just Me. It’s Not Just You. It’s Common.
Sadly, stories like mine aren’t rare. Many neurodivergent children experience cute aggression without the language or support to understand what’s happening. Without guidance, some of those experiences end in accidents, like mine. And the guilt can last a lifetime.
If you're a parent or carer and you’ve seen a child react strongly—maybe even scarily—to something they love deeply, please know:
It may not be defiance. It may not be aggression. It may be too much love and too little support.
Cute aggression: What to look for (and what to do)
Signs of cute aggression in children (or even adults!) might include:
- Squeezing pets, toys, or friends too hard
- Gritting teeth or clenching fists when excited
- Shouting “I love you!” with intense energy or emotion
- Crying during happy moments
- Making high-pitched noises or sudden movements
- Shaking in anticipation or excitement
If you see this, don’t shame it. Don’t punish it.
Instead try:
- Helping them name the feeling: “Is that your happy growl?”
- Offering something safe to squeeze (a pillow, plushie, etc.).
- Teaching body regulation: “Let’s take a deep breath together.”
- Modelling how to express big feelings in safe, loving ways.
To anyone who's ever felt ‘too much’: you are not broken. You are not dangerous. You are not alone.
You were never “too much.” You were just enough in a world that didn’t understand your language.
And if you’ve ever felt guilt for something you didn’t yet have the words for—I hope this blog is for you what that blog once was for me: a doorway into understanding, and maybe even healing.
About the author:
Rose Hughes is 31 years young, and an AuDHD female living in Belgium. You can find her on social media at @rose.llauren.
Recommended reading:
My Experience with PS128: Rose’s Neuralli MP Story
