They don’t tell you that having a sensitive soul can feel like bleeding quietly in a world that calls your wounds weakness.
That it’s not just about feeling deeply—it’s about carrying pain that was never yours to begin with.
It’s loving people who only knew how to take.
It’s being the place everyone runs to when they’re broken,
while you sit alone, cracked wide open,
and no one even notices you’re bleeding out.
Being sensitive in this world isn’t soft.
It’s steel wrapped in velvet.
It’s a war no one sees you fighting—
where the battlefield is your own heart,
and the casualties are the pieces of yourself you give away
trying to save people who wouldn’t cross the street to save you.
For me?
It looked like motherhood in a storm.
It looked like rocking babies while breaking inside.
It looked like facing judges, social workers, trauma, addiction, and the howling ghosts of my past—
with nothing but stubborn love in my chest
and God’s whisper in my ear saying,
“Get up. Do not let this be the end.”
They called me too emotional.
Too intense.
Too reactive.
But what they missed—what they always miss—
is that people like me don’t just feel pain.
We inhabit it.
We absorb it from others, transmute it, carry it through fire,
and somehow turn it into light.
I’ve stood in darkness longer than I ever should have.
Waited on people who never showed up.
Fought for love that left me with bruises.
Poured out every drop of myself for those who walked away without ever looking back.
And yet—
I am still here.
Still rising.
Still loving.
Still feeling—deeply, fully, achingly—
even when it would be easier to go numb.
Because being a sensitive soul didn’t make me weak.
It made me watchful.
Resilient.
Unshakeable in a world built on pretending not to care.
I have cried in bathrooms and courtrooms.
I have screamed into pillows while pretending to be composed.
I have begged heaven for answers I didn’t get—
and kept walking anyway.
Because the truth is…
this world doesn’t know what to do with people like me.
People who see too much, feel too much, love too much.
But it needs us.
It needs me.
Because while others build walls,
I build bridges.
While others turn cold,
I burn with truth.
While others survive,
I resurrect.
So let them call me sensitive.
Let them call me soft.
Let them call me anything but gone.
Because I am the storm they never saw coming—
and the shelter they run to when it breaks.
And in a world that thrives on hardness and hiding,
being a sensitive soul isn’t just a gift—
it’s my rebellion.
It’s my crown. It’s my calling
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Letters From the Edge 