Story of different worlds
It was evening, after dark, in wintertime Poland. Winters were often frightening for me as a child, all the way into puberty. With the early sunsets and long hours of darkness, there was plenty of time for my imagination to run wild. Sometimes I saw a huge, sinister cloud floating just outside the window. Other times, malevolent snow creatures loomed on the kitchen balcony. Everything—even people and places—seemed scarier.
I’m not entirely sure how old I was—perhaps 12—when I snuck out to the kitchen to make myself a late-night sandwich. My parents’ argument in the living room had now clearly escalated my familiar sense of foreboding into stiffening tension.
To deal with these kinds of big feelings I had developed two ways that I would apply either individually or together. I became acutely vigilant about everything going on around me to detect the tiniest changes, and I would disappear. I learned to disappear very early as a baby, when things got scary or overwhelming. Where did I go? It’s hard to tell because it was my mind that was going absent while my body remained at the location. I rarely remembered the “trips”. Eventually, I spent most of my childhood lost in between worlds, but hardly present. This one moment, though, I remember in full vibrancy.
With my breath held in my throat, I listened closely. I avoided looking directly at the snowed-in balcony, afraid of what I might see. Instead, I focused on quickly assembling my food so I could leave the kitchen as soon as possible.
But this time, something was different. Maybe it was something they said, or maybe I was ready to hear what had always been there. Something shifted in me, as though I had just tuned into a new octave of perception. The rush of excitement coaxed my mind back into my senses. A fight that usually overwhelmed me with stress instead sparked curiosity, and new ideas began flooding my mind.
What I heard now, instead of the bombardment of their mutual accusations that used to make me feel physically sick, was the underlying drive behind it all: the blind desperation to be heard and seen—to matter. It felt as if my parents were speaking from two completely different worlds, unable to reach the other party. They seemed to have been communicating in entirely different languages, their words missing each other entirely. Neither of them was “right,” but each was convinced they were. A single realisation cracked my mind open.
I was exhilarated. For a while, I became lost in thought, connecting the dots to understand what I had just experienced.
“There are at least as many worlds as there are people,” I concluded in silent awe. “Each person has an entire universe inside themselves. No matter how many years you live together, these worlds are different. From the outside, everyone might look as if they’re living in the same world, but really, they’re not.”
I realised that people see, feel, hear, and perceive the world differently. Their perception is shaped by their point of view—their personal truth in any given moment. While there are rare times when people connect in a “common world,” most of the time, they occupy private spaces, misunderstood even by those closest to them.
The fear of screams and evil snow creatures completely forgotten, I walked over to the balcony doors and looked out. I scanned the lit windows of the surrounding buildings. In each one, there was a family, like ours. Each person, I thought, carried their own universe, sharing only fragments of it with others. Beyond what I could see, the entire city, the country, and the world held billions of these separate, simultaneous universes. Most of them were unaware of one another.
This fascination with perception and the act of “translating between worlds” dates back that far. In hindsight, that epiphany was the foundation for all my future interests. It was the first moment I consciously witnessed the subjective worlds of others.
Although I mostly continued life as usual, questions lingered and evolved as I matured: Why does one person feel something completely different from another in the same situation? Why are there so many worlds? What makes them separate? How can we become understood if everyone speaks a different language? How do people agree on anything? Who is really right? And which shared truths connect us—and where do they come from?
Through life experiences, rather than books, I began to find some answers. These insights led me to better understand my own nature and the nature of sensitivity.
To truly understand anything, we need context—points of reference. We see light in the context of darkness. Vibrancy, through dullness. Abundance, by its absence. And sensitivity, through knowing numbness. To know who you are, you must know who you’re not. Contrast and experience is the foundation for knowing anything.
It’s natural for most people to fixate on observable, material reality. Given the heat that thoughts around money, economy, relationships, jobs, and property evoke, it’s a compelling focus. And rightly so. Each day brings access to more information, new discoveries, and leaps in technological progress consistently adding to an already complex world and the pressures of navigating the changes.
In the last few decades, science and technology have established themselves as the ultimate authorities on “truth,” the custodians of reality. We’re told to respect hard facts and evidence. Scientific research has seeped into mainstream, pop culture, and even into day-to-day conversations. Friends and colleagues quote studies when advising on even the smallest decisions.
You might hear someone say they avoid sugar because of research on dopamine, or insist that cuddling a baby is essential due to studies on oxytocin release and bonding. This kind of knowledge can be helpful when external authorities guide us toward healthy choices aligned with our personal needs.
Not only it is tiresome, but it becomes a hindrance when the voice of “the other” replaces the whispers of our own senses and the discernment that comes from truly paying attention to how we feel.
The first authorities, who seem to know it all were parents. You and I had to internalise many of such “shoulds” coming from them and many other sources, that over time clouded all the “wants” and “needs”.
We have teachers, thought leaders, priests, governments, and science telling us what to do, offering established ways of doing things 'the right way.' Then there are age-old philosophies passed down through generations—some wise in the principles they offer, others requiring blind obedience, and others yet guiding us to discover truth within. Finally, there is the truth that arises from within—a personal and unquestionable reality shaped by subjective experience.
Each of us contains our own world and our own truths. Even those long tried and tested ones can never completely be “right” for every person. Some of your truths might seem similar to those of your friend or partner. While others may be completely different from those closest to you. And each is right in its own right.
For the entire life we walk torn between what we want and what we have to, often out of habit choosing the security of the “shoulds”. And more actors are raising their voices, talking over each other, telling us what to do. As the song goes “everybody wants to rule the world” but that’s because they too want to matter. So it may be a relief to realise that we actually need very few of these external voices to create a good life.
Although we were made to believe that people who set the rules know what’s good for us, with age, I’ve observed that the opposite was true. The more I tuned them out and learned to listen and follow my own voice, the more fulfilled, healthy, and confident I became.
Additionally, sensitive people, as you'll read soon, occupy a different realm and are bound by different sets of rules than “normal” people. It’s a realm that others can’t see. And yet, the blind ones tend to dictate what’s “real” in this world, leading others to oblivion. But the tables are turning.
The development of technology—naturally tied to the superiority of reason—has deepened the disconnect between mind and body. The more someone relies on a smartwatch to tell them how they slept, the more they lose touch with their natural rhythms and drives. As we obsess over the newest devices, gurus, or frameworks that promise shortcuts to happiness, we lose sight of what’s truly best for us.
There are countless dogmas, and guidelines telling us how to live “better” lives. Yet none of these can ever replace the greatest source of knowledge at our disposal. Our subjective senses.
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