For most of my life, I saw my sensitivity as weakness.
I felt too much, too quickly, too deeply. A passing comment could wound me. A goodbye could feel like abandonment. A song could unravel me for days. People told me to “toughen up,” as if shutting down was the only way to survive.
But here’s what I’ve learned: what I thought was fragility is actually a kind of strength.
Sensitivity means I notice what others overlook the tremor in someone’s voice, the sadness behind their smile, the way silence can say more than words. It allows me to connect, to empathize, to create. It’s the reason I can turn pain into poetry, grief into art, loneliness into words that reach someone else’s heart.
Yes, sensitivity makes life heavier. But it also makes life richer. I feel the sting of sorrow, but I also feel the sweetness of small joys — the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the kindness of a stranger, the quiet relief of being understood.
Strength doesn’t always look like hardness. Sometimes it looks like softness that refuses to disappear. Sensitivity isn’t about breaking — it’s about bending, carrying, absorbing, and still choosing to keep your heart open.
If you’ve ever been told you’re “too sensitive,” I want you to hear this: sensitivity is not a flaw. It’s your power. The world doesn’t need less of it. The world needs more of it.
Through the Fog 