One of those days it was not fun to be around me, I drew a warm bath, diluted a few drops of essential oils, and dipped my body in the lavender-scented water hoping to dissolve all of my thoughts and emotions.
I know I am sensitive.
Others look at me, blatantly comment ‘You’re too sensitive’— as if being sensitive is like a shirt, and mine is too large, so I should trim some parts of it in order to look fit in their eyes.
‘So you suffer’. Cats and dogs are sensitive to sounds and smells, I don’t see them suffer. Neither are they paranoid. Their hearing and smelling are just so heightened that they sense what humans cannot.
We tend to criticize what we cannot comprehend.
But I understand. Many times in my life, I wished I had not been born sensitive.
I was alone in my hotel in Taipei, Taiwan. I was dissolved in my bathtub and in my own tears.
No matter how much I loved my job, I craved something I didn’t have in my life back then. But I was too busy to think about it. I had so much to do and no time to weep. I needed to ‘be strong’ and stay focused.
It was another business trip. I arrived in Taipei the day before, restlessly commuted to university campuses in the outskirts to meet my partners, and came back to an exhausted body in a lonely hotel.
My 21-year-old self would be thrilled, but my 26-year-old was not. Empty handshakes and lengthy formalities. No matter how much I loved my job, I craved something I didn’t have in my life back then. Something I didn’t know I needed.
But I was too busy to think about it. I had people to meet in 3 other cities across the country. I had so much to do and no time to weep. I needed to ‘be strong’ and stay focused.
I drowned myself in the bath, hoping it would clear my mind—like the way we desperately wash our faces to awaken the brains.
But the more I resisted, the more I grieved. Helplessness took all over me. All of my muscles seemed too heavy to move. Except for my heart that was contracting achingly.
I rose from underwater and stared aimlessly on the ceiling—‘Why are these feelings so painful? Why do I have to feel this much? I don’t want this sensitivity. If this is your gift, please take it away from me’.
I surrendered. I closed my eyes, letting all the tears run. When I opened up, it had been long enough in the bath—the water was no longer warm.
My heart had also stopped aching. The room was peacefully silent except for the calming sound of my breath.
I hugged my knees into my chest and felt my belly rising and falling with each breath. Arms around shoulders and chin on knees, I watched the water underneath forming waves and fading into a perfectly tranquil surface.
For a minute, there was no duty and burden in my head. There was just me and my lingering sorrow.
I looked across the floor, in the mirror hung on the opposite wall, a familiar face appeared. It was my face. Sometimes I walked past glass surfaces and almost smiled at myself because I thought I had seen a friend.
So I was not alone, I realized. I whispered ‘You’re not alone. I’m here for you’.
I sat there with my sadness, relieved and safe, like sitting with an old friend. I didn’t have to feel so helpless. I didn’t have to resist. I just needed to feel what was in my heart.
Tears covered my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. But my chest was lifted. A warm sensation sneaked into my heart. A wave of love arose in my body.
I sat there with my sadness, relieved and safe, like sitting with an old friend.
I didn’t have to feel so helpless. I didn’t have to resist. I just needed to feel what was in my heart. Not because I couldn’t escape from it. But because it needed to be felt, to be seen, to be heard.
At the end of my trip, I was sitting at a waiting lounge at Taoyuan International Airport, enjoying a break at the nowhere, waiting to fly home.
I was staring at the wall decorated as an aquarium when I unexpectedly recalled the funeral of a friend who passed away due to drowning. It was, in fact, her mother that I happened to remember.
It was a long time ago but that memory is still vivid. At the funeral, mournful music and people wearing white filled the small residence located in a deep narrow alley.
I was queuing in a long line, waiting to greet the host—my friend’s mother—to offer my condolences. She seemed to have stood there forever, shaking our hands, keeping them in hers for a second, and exchanging words—with a lasting smile.
As I came closer, I realized something unusual. Her eyes weren’t smiling.
Others avoided eye contact with her. She seemed confused with her facial expression and gestures, but she concealed.
The greeting process became shorter and shorter. It was too swift to notice something was bothering her.
Or maybe it was obvious, but none was able to help? They all seemed so perplexed by how awkward this situation could be, by the complex emotions of the host. They too were concealing their feelings for her.
The moment our eyes met, our feelings connected. The light in her eyes inflamed into the look of ache and grief. She pulled me close and hugged me. Her smiley mask broke. She cried and screamed.
It was painful to watch. Did this woman sleep at all the night before? Was everything she wanted to do screaming and crying and honoring memories of her daughter in peace instead of all this?
I was concerned. What could my teenage self do for her?
It was my turn to greet her. I shook her hands. I looked into her weary eyes. The moment our eyes met, our feelings connected. The light in her eyes inflamed into the look of ache and grief. She pulled me close and hugged me. Her smiley mask broke. She cried and screamed. Her body was all shaky.
‘She was just your age. She has so much hope, so many dreams’.
After a second of paralysis, I hugged her back and patted her. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. She deserves our grief’.
Others started to become sentimental. There was no longer awkwardness, no longer repression, no resistance. Just a bunch of people experiencing grief and expressing it together.
After a while, she stopped sobbing. She took my hands, kept them in hers, looked deep into my eyes, and thanked me—’I was exhausted from performing this ceremony. But I feel better now. It was very relieving’.
At the airport, in front of the ‘aquarium’ wall, I suddenly understood.
I am made of light and darkness, bright and gray emotions. Altogether, they make me whole.
There is jealousy where there is love. There is disappointment where there is hope. There is sadness where there is joy.
They are the different colors of my human experience palette. There is no great painting without contrast.
Difficult emotions are like my friend’s grieving mother. I need to look her in the eyes, embrace her and let her express those feelings.
In her presence, I need to be truthful. If we conceal our hearts, we don’t see others’. Once we free our hearts, we liberate others’. Our wholeness can heal.
My emotions don’t make me weak. They are messengers, proofs that I’m human. With them, I find the little-known parts of me—the courage to walk through the pains, compassion for myself and others, and the gift of feeling deeply itself.
Words from Rumi’s poems came to me—‘You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens’, ‘the wound is the place where the light enters you’.
My emotions don’t make me weak. They are messengers, proofs that I’m human.
Walking with them, I feel my human soul alive. I found the courage to face inner adversity, but not fight; the compassion to feel for myself, and for others; and the gift of feeling and reflecting deeply.
I wish for my heart to be brave, instead of being numb. Walking with difficult emotions, there is a depth to life I couldn’t have lived otherwise, and the realization that my heart’s capacity to hold pain is as great as its capacity to hold love, joy, and hope.
I whispered ‘Thank you. For going through this with me. For teaching me these emotions. I’m here to experience them’.