Prologue: Sensitivity. Gift or Curse?
“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honours the servant and has forgotten the gift.”
—Albert Einstein
How do you feel about your sensitivity?
It’s fair to assume that, for many years, living as your sensitive self, people—and society in general—gave you the idea that sensitivity is a weakness. And most likely, you’ve felt that way too.
Life has likely been an overwhelming experience, with almost every day draining your energy, feeling somewhere between dysregulated and shutting down, as you dream of escape, locking a thick, sound-blocking door behind you and throwing the key away. Maybe you’re exhausted from managing the world, saving, helping, explaining, apologising, proving yourself, and justifying your right to exist.
On other occasions, you might fall to pieces over something small that didn’t go as planned, leaving you vulnerable, ashamed and helpless. Perhaps you’ve felt inferior or lonely—at times, completely isolated in your perceptions or abstract sense of humour, which were never met with enough understanding or appreciation. Worse still, you may have suffered abuse, betrayal of trust, or exploitation from those closest to you.
Over time, you’ve likely started protecting yourself frantically, trying to stop the inflow of stressful energies. On those lowest of days, you may even have prayed to the heavens to be just a bit more “normal.” To be more like others.
And no matter how much you tried, that wish never quite came true.
But perhaps you feel differently—I am only guessing. Still, most sensitives would resonate with at least some of this. When, finally, they come across a label that mirrors them (such as the idea of high sensitivity, autism, ADHD or other form of neurodivergence), this validation often brings a sense of great relief. In one moment, they discover they’re not alone in their suffering. “I’m not crazy! It’s really a thing!” They start looking at their live through a different lens and start making more sense. Even if others also suffer, and even if these realisations might also come with grief, knowing that others like us exist makes it better. After all, misery loves company.
Others, always knew and maybe received the validation of their neurodivergence early in childhood.
Either way, it feels good to feel seen, even if only by those who created labels. Validation offers understanding. It might also offer a permission to claim yourself a bit more. It feels good to move up from being the only outcast rejected by everyone else to finding a tribe—small and likewise rejected—but one that understands the challenges. In articles, blog posts, and books, sensitives learn that they’re not flawed or broken, as they once thought.
Every quote on Instagram about high sensitivity feels like music to their ears: “Wow, this is so great. Finally, people get me. Things are making sense. I’m finally being understood.” They bask in the bitter-sweetness of acceptance and the mutual exchange of perspectives that now resonate. They might even together complain about those who are less sensitive or the harshness of the world around them. Finding people on the same wavelengths seems too good to be true.
But two things tend to halt the momentum.
First, validation doesn’t really bring solutions. It’s great to feel seen, but where do we go from there?
Second, sensitives often encounter the idea that not only are they not flawed, but their sensitivity is a gift. [Cue record screech.] STOP. Hold on. What???
“My neurodivergence (sensitivity) is a gift?” It sounds nice, but is it? Sure, it’s lovely to be empathic, for those whose feelings you absorb like a sponge. And some will even say that you have a hidden genius. But how exactly is all that a gift for you?
Most sensitive people are naturally giving and supportive, even to strangers, and would consider it too selfish to even ask this question. So I’m asking this question for you. How exactly is all that a gift for you?
Other people calling you gifted makes sense because they benefit from your supposed “gift.” Society may also value you for your selfless actions (perhaps only for this).
But for many I’ve spoken to, this idea feels baffling. Isn’t the gifted person the one who should benefit? But so much that dominates their experience in their life is struggle, fatigue, overwhelm, pain, rejection, and misunderstanding. While they can certainly agree with how challenging sensitivity is, seeing it as a gift is another matter entirely.
Let’s unpack this.
When we talk about sensitivity, it’s not just one trait that makes you different from the majority of the population. It’s a whole package of traits, challenges, aptitudes, tendencies, and potentials—a mix that adds complexity and weight. Sensitivity is the good, the bad, and the ugly. And on many occasions, if you’ve had your label or a diagnosis (such as ADHD or autism) for a long time, you know how much stigma and pressure this involves.
Regardless of whether you or others know about your particular neurodivergence, people might praise your empathy or artistic creativity, which is true. They might be happy if you self-sacrifice, and do the work no one else does because of your high conscientiousness. But behind those externally observable highly rewarded features lies a process that makes it all possible—and it’s not all pretty.
Many traits and abilities associated with sensitivity—creativity, intuition, problem solving, non-linear thinking—are tied to the right hemisphere of the brain. So to the general public, your deep introspection, honesty, emotionality, different way of expression, and abstract thought might seem like a threat. The silent, observant person in the corner can appear weak to some, while making others feel unnerved, as if you can see straight through them. Not to mention if you struggle publicly, you might even be seen as unstable and potentially dangerous. Our expressions vary a lot, depending on how much you are camouflaging, but living in the body-mind that’s easily overwhelmed is never fun.
When it comes to thinking, our movement toward accuracy, idealism, truth, and integrity often clashes with a world remote from our values. Many of us trust others, and that openness leaves us vulnerable to harm, abuse, and betrayal. It’s no wonder sensitives are easily overwhelmed, experiencing even daily struggles as a series of small traumas.
I’ve also noticed that the most sensitive people are often creatively minded—many referred to as “gifted”. This doesn’t just mean artistic talent—it’s the ability to connect the dots between seemingly unrelated events or ideas, creating insights that others might miss. This tendency to link and interpret can make sensitives seem scattered or incomprehensible to others.
Sensitivity brings abundant stimuli, which can lead to burnout and emotional overload. Yet, in the seeming chaos of the intuitive mind, there’s an order few realise. Sensitives are constantly synthesising information from their surroundings, memories, and intangible sources, forming understandings that are hard to express in simple terms.
Maybe you’ve experienced this too.
From all angles, sensitivity can seem like a mixed blessing—a gift easily mistaken for a curse. Our job is to learn how to harness it, to maximise the good and minimise the bad.
Two major factors determine whether sensitivity will enhance or weaken you: context and utility.
Context asks, Who sets the standards? Much of how we perceive our abilities—and our worth—depends on how others value these traits. Could it be that the world is wrong and you are right?
Utility asks, How can I use this? A gift without use is no gift at all. When you begin to see the potential of your sensitivity, everything changes. Even before you fully master it, the realisation alone can set you on a different trajectory.
These two factors, context and utility, will be explored in depth in the chapters ahead, offering practical insights into how you can navigate sensitivity’s paradoxical nature—and, ultimately, decide its value for yourself.
“I asked Mom if I was a gifted child. She said they certainly wouldn’t have paid for me.”
—Bill Watterson
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