Debunking my biggest weakness

Why I think sensitivity is a synonym for strength

I forgot how sensitive you are, she told me. “Not in a bad way.” 

Sensitivity was so fundamental to me that I seldom thought of it either, but I never forgot it, unlike my sister had on this particular Sunday afternoon. 

I could describe to you what she said that triggered me, the memory of being in the elevator with groceries slipping from my hands and tears slipping from my eyes, but what stuck with me longer was the experience of being labeled something unfavorable. Reminded I am more fragile than most and unable to defend myself about it for that would only make it more true. I knew it was true though, delicacy was etched in me and it rarely went unnoticed when someone or something pricked my tender chord.

This quality is my emotional achilles heel. It’s the undercurrent of most stories from my childhood. For instance, I famously hated loud noises. According to my family, I’d cry when the tea kettle boiled or when someone would vacuum, and I’d spend thunderstorms and most of the 4th of July with two pillows pressed tightly to my ears. Even now, it still takes an intentional deep breath for me to blend a smoothie. Aside from just my ears, my sensitivity shows up everywhere because I am sentimental about everything. My whole life hurtful things said or done tended to dig a little deeper than maybe they should have. I admittedly offend easily, I know this. Regardless of if I assume the offender has a benevolent motive or can see I shouldn’t take it personally, I’m usually left with the feeling I need to toughen up. A sister can tell you your flaws forthright, but many times I’ve heard that message from others without it ever being verbally stated. The sense has always been clear: to be sensitive is to be weak. This I had accepted about myself. I’d thrown in the towel. If weakness is to lack the strength to remain unbothered even when it impairs me then I suppose I am weak, or at least not strong. 

After my clash with my sister, I began to consider the extent to which my sensitivity, or what I’d come to accept as my weakness, has shaped my personality, relationship with others, and overall experience of existing in the world. In reflecting, I noticed a running theme of concealment, finding emotional shelter whenever I can. This proclivity shows up in many ways. I tend to camouflage within the bolder characters in my life. I almost always cry in private. I willingly accept when someone reduces my reaction to being sensitive and usually believe them when they tell me so. That is the worst part–my belief in it. I’ve grown to believe I am self-suffering, that when someone tells me it’s not that deep, they are probably right. To agree with the conclusion that I am mistaken in my understanding of what happened and irrational in my response to it confides me to a world in which I am always wrong, not only hurt but now also ashamed. I sometimes feel like an unreliable narrator of my own life, backing away from saying what I mean and replacing it with statements like “Maybe I’m just overthinking it” or “I’m sorry for overreacting.” I’ve hidden behind these reflexive phrases because it’s easier to carry the burden of being incurably thin-skinned than to deliver a chorus of emotion and expect not to bruise. 

Recently, too, I wondered, how often would the opposite be true? Times feelings had no rules and what mattered most was how I felt as opposed to how others perceived me. It occurred to me that the rate at which I felt free to feel has steadily declined parallel to my understanding of my sensitivity. In other words, the more aware I become of it, the more ashamed I am. Because of this, I have developed a habit of shielding my open wounds. Not to deflect but to absorb, allowing things to be felt but forbidding them to be seen. Perhaps this why I so frequently prefer to be alone. I am an eggshell and the world is my edge of the pan. I lean toward solitude to avoid being cracked.

Of course, though, there have been times when I couldn’t hide, when my sensitivity was made more obvious. One time in particular, on an eventless evening during my senior year of college, some of my friends created a Google poll surveying our larger circle. It contained mostly jovial inquiries, such as, who here would be most likely to get knocked up first or end up imprisoned? Who really makes us laugh the hardest? I won none of these but the title I did secure was the group’s Most Sensitive.

Upon my unanimous victory–or what felt to me like a loss–I instantly felt a familiar twinge of shame. I sat quietly on the couch of my college apartment, a place I thought felt so safe but looking back maybe it wasn’t always that way. While watching the pie chart illuminate the results in real-time, I fought to hold a placid expression, sensitivity shield enacted, though I knew my inner feelings were to be hurt, which I suppose proves the validity of the verdict. It’s true I was the most sensitive, I probably even voted for myself because I was self-aware enough to know I deserved it. I left the common space and retreated to my bedroom as I typically did when something bothered me but I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t remember thinking too deeply about this after the fact because again, until not long ago, I’ve accepted sensitivity as an acute flaw of mine. Still, I mention this story because I haven’t forgotten the feeling of being singled out for something I disliked about myself, and I was reminded of what that felt like in the elevator with my sister more recently. It is not that I’ve lost my sensitivity, but rather that I’ve become more assured of it. Next time I will say thank you instead of I’m sorry.

I had wrongly taken these two accounts of being labeled sensitive, and several other similar moments throughout the years, as defeats. What I’m realizing now is this belief has in some way severed my relationship with myself over time. When I view my nuanced and complex emotions from a place of lack of strength, I am continuously deficient, inadequate, and left with a profound void in my heart. The truth is I need to feel things through. My heart was made to be full. And to feel things fully, mistakably too much or too often, but in fact just enough to be meaningful, is I’m realizing not a sign of weakness. It is quite the opposite, possibly the greatest act of strength a human can commit. To be sensitive is to care when no one else does. To love when no one else will. To make space for what we cradle close to our hearts, for better or for worse, to be seen and cherished. Connection is born out of these vulnerable moments, if not with others at least with ourselves, because having permission to feel will always unearth the most authentic part of you. I think being sensitive is a language of its own, one much of the world does not speak. If you feel you too fall in this category, let this be an offering of understanding, because I know in a world that does not always understand, the extension of someone who does can mean so much. I want to tell you that you don’t need to lighten up. You need to find people who are willing to be with you in your dark. 

My whole life I’ve been under the impression sensitivity is a reaction, a decision we make, controlled or not, to respond intensely to something. That to be stuck with such a burden was my losing ticket in the genetic lottery, an allergy I must always be cognizant of, a disclaimer that might as well be tattooed. Sensitivity was thought to be a playmaker in my life, one separate from me but with permanent residence in my head. Though I’m still learning to love this tender part of me, I feel certain what I thought was my biggest weakness is actually my most underrated strength. I have a deep emotional awareness that sometimes hurts me but mostly it heals me. It’s what makes me kind. It’s how I have the connections I do. It’s why I’m writing this.

As a collective, it’s easier to label someone flawed than to consider they might be responding appropriately. That is to say, maybe I am not crazy to be sensitive to hurtful things in this already confusing hellscape of a world, maybe everyone else is crazy not to be. I’ve longed to be that person who on paper is tough and brave but I’ve changed my mind. I am tough and brave not in spite of my sensitivity but because of it. I was wrong, but my sister was right. I am sensitive. Not in a bad way.

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Thank you so much for reading. Here are some goodies to take with you on your way out of this little party we just had. ;-)

My April discography was mostly Clairo because I saw her in concert this month which naturally means I am now emotionally attached to her (I’m sensitive ok!!!) I honestly could have added her entire setlist on this but I tried to narrow it down to a few favorites, paired with some similar indie bedroom pop soft rock vibe songs I enjoyed in my ears this month. 

Sweet Potato Black Bean Tacos

In February I went on my first Bumble BFF date and after not being able to find parking at the nicer restaurant we were going to eat at, we walked to this quaint Mexican taqueria. In the following weeks we revisited this place together a handful of times, eventually deciding to recreate our favorite of their tacos at home and honestly, we nailed it. So good we made them twice in one week. To be clear I’ve known Ellie for only two months and we’ve eaten these tacos together I think five or six times. They’re simple, easy, cheap, vegetarian, and I mean what says friendship more than margs and tacos? Here’s what you’ll need to be in on the fun:

I love me a cutie little grocery list.

The instructions are pretty self-explanatory. Chop your sweet potato into small cubes, season generously, and roast until they’re very soft. I think we did a 400-degree oven. While that’s cooking, slice up your peppers and onions and sauté. This is a good window of time to sip your marg and snack on some chips/salsa/guac (not required by highly recommended). Heat your beans in a pot with some of those same spices. Then prepare your tortillas. We just nuked ours in the microwave for sake of time and dishes but you could alternatively heat them on a pan. To assemble the tacos, coat the tortilla in black beans, add the sweet potato, P&Os, a heavy sprinkle of crumbled cheese, and cilantro. Squeeze lime on top if you have it. Plop on some salsa and/orguac if there’s any left from snacktime.

That’s all for this month! I hope in some way this issue left you better than it found you. If it did, let me know by leaving a comment, sharing your favorite lines, or just promising to come back next time. Whatever feels right.

And remember, sensitivity is a f*cking superpower!

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Salena