When the World Grew Louder - A Reflection on Sensitivity and Self-Responsibility

When I was a little girl, my mother used to stand outside my bedroom door and listen to me talking to my “friends.” She never seemed alarmed—just quietly curious. I would come to learn later in life that my mother was a mystic too, one who spoke with spirits and listened to the unseen. But at that time, I don’t know if she had yet remembered that part of herself. Still, there were clues. Our bookshelves held titles on witchcraft and the old ways, things most people didn’t talk about in the 1970s. When a neighborhood visitor caught sight of them, whispers began—rumors and labels that only deepened my sense of being different. What I didn’t realize then was how deeply those perceptions would shape my understanding of belonging, and of what it meant to walk between worlds.

My mother also spent a lot of time with her grandmother, my great-grandmother, whom she described as a “medicine woman.” I’m grateful for the memories I have of her—the quiet wisdom in her eyes and the calm presence she carried. Though I didn’t understand it then, those early moments with her planted seeds that would later grow into my own path of remembering and healing.

I was an only child, but I was never lonely. My room was alive with music, light, and conversation no one else could hear. I had a record player that filled the space with sound, spinning the same albums over and over as I sang and played. I would sit cross-legged on the floor, lost in those worlds of melody and imagination, surrounded by the gentle hum of energy I knew as companionship. That space was my first sacred sanctuary.

When we moved, and I was around school age, my playroom was in the basement. It became my secret world of safety and wonder. I decorated it with my toy box, my books, and my beloved family of stuffed animals. A giant circle-weave rug warmed the floor, and one side of the room had a couch and coffee table—perfect for playing grown-up. The other half was bare concrete, my little roller rink where I could skate in circles for hours. In the winter, the wood-burning stove glowed nearby, filling the room with that unmistakable scent of comfort and home.

Yet, I also sensed energies in that home that frightened me. I would wake in the night and see someone standing in my room, watching silently. My parents assured me it was just a dream, but I knew what I felt was real. Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear voices and laughter rising from the basement—a festive gathering of people when everyone in the house was asleep. Those moments left me both curious and uneasy, aware of a world beyond the one my parents could see.

After my parents divorced when I was eight, that sensitivity only intensified. Without understanding my own energetic vulnerability, I absorbed every emotion around me—my father’s grief, my mother’s absence, the unspoken tension that hung in the air. I didn’t yet know how to shield myself, how to separate what was mine from what was not. Those years were filled with both wonder and confusion.

School was bright and loud and crowded. I loved learning, but I didn’t understand how to be around so many others. The emotions of the children swirled like colors I couldn’t filter out—anxieties, insecurities, sadness, excitement—I felt them all as if they were my own.

The word empath wasn’t used in the 1970s, or at least not in my world. There was no language for what I experienced, no internet to offer explanations. I just knew I was different.

In my effort to be “normal,” I began to dim parts of myself. I tried to laugh when others laughed, hide my tears when I felt too much, and say the right things to be liked and accepted. But no matter how hard I tried, I never quite fit. The teachers loved me—gentle, respectful, quiet—but with the other students, I always felt like I was standing just outside a window, watching life happen on the other side.

As I grew older, that sensitivity became both a gift and a challenge. I could sense the unspoken emotions in every room, often trying to ease others’ discomfort without realizing I was depleting my own energy. I didn’t yet understand that empathy without boundaries can become self-abandonment.

In the absence of language or guidance, I sought ways to numb the noise—to quiet the ache of feeling so much. My parents’ divorce brought two very different worlds, one stable and one chaotic, and my young heart tried to navigate both. Those early years taught me that sensitivity without safety can turn inward, but they also planted the seeds of the healer I would one day become.

It took me many years—and many awakenings—to reclaim those hidden parts of myself. To understand that sensitivity isn’t a weakness or an illness; it’s an invitation to awareness. Sensitive souls are not only attuned to the emotions and energies of this world, but also to the subtler dimensions—the unseen realms where Spirit moves, where ancestors whisper, and where intuition takes form. We feel the spaces between words, the energy beneath interactions, and the presence of what others may not yet perceive.

Now, I teach what I had to learn the long way: that being sensitive means carrying a deeper responsibility for our energy, our words, and our presence. It means learning the sacred art of boundaries—not as rigid walls that keep others out, but as sacred containers that hold and protect what is most essential within us.

Boundaries allow energy to flow without depletion. They create a space where compassion can breathe, intuition can flourish, and our spirit can remain centered even in a noisy world. For the sensitive soul, boundaries aren’t barriers—they are medicine.

For the sensitive soul, the veil between worlds is thin. We are the bridges between the seen and unseen, called to bring understanding, compassion, and light into both.

If you’ve ever been told you’re “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” or “too much,” know that you’re not broken. You’re simply attuned to the subtle, where the rest of the world is still learning to listen.

For the Sensitive Soul
If you resonate with my story, you may already know the beauty and challenge of feeling deeply. Here are a few gentle practices that have supported me along the way:

• Create daily moments of quiet. Sensitives need silence like others need air. Even five minutes of stillness can reset your energy.
• Ground in the body. Touch the earth, move gently, breathe deeply — let the physical world remind you that you belong here.
• Discern what is yours. When emotions arise, ask: Is this mine to carry? If not, offer it to Spirit and release it with gratitude.
• Set sacred boundaries. Protect your energy not through walls, but through intention — visualizing yourself held in light, open yet safe.
• Stay connected. Sensitive souls thrive in community with others who understand.

If you’d like to explore more ways to honor your sensitivity, I invite you to reach out or join me for one of my gatherings or mentorship offerings. Together, we can transform sensitivity into strength — and create a life that feels both peaceful and powerful.

Closing Reflection:
What would change if you saw your sensitivity as a superpower instead of a flaw?
Take a few quiet moments this week to sit with that question, hand on heart, and simply listen.
You are safe.
You are supported.
You are love.
I love you.
Dr. Angela Faith

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