Recently, I practically ran away from the most popular festival in Bali. People were bumping into me from every side, the music was a physical pain in my ears, and sweat was dripping down my back. Standing there in my surf-vibe outfit, I realized I had completely misunderstood the dress code. A visual reminder that I didn’t fit into this loud, curated world. It was a wall of impressions I couldn’t handle. Even though people travel from all over the world to be there, the only thought screaming in my head was: ‘Where is the exit?’ Once I found it, I didn’t look back. Walking away was the only way I could breathe again.
For a moment, that festival chaos transported me back to my old life in my corporate job. I found those work events the absolute worst. I was expected to show up, network, and act like a successful leader, but the sea of voices and expectations was paralyzing. Sometimes I thought there was something wrong with my ears because, in those moments, I literally couldn’t hear anymore. I saw mouths moving, but I had no idea what people were saying. All the sounds blended into one giant roar of static. Fortunately, I left that corporate world behind a while ago.
The weight of silence
I believe I was sensitive even before I was born. As a child, I was like a human antenna, always sensing the mood at home and elsewhere. I felt my parents’ grief, their stress, and their silent worries. I desperately wanted to be invisible so I wouldn’t add to their heavy load. I also felt the insecurity of a teacher and the hidden anxiety of a classmate. It crushed me, like a physical weight that made me shrink. I simply didn’t want to be a burden to anyone.
But there was magic, too. I noticed synchronicities everywhere. If a certain thought or topic consumed me, I would hear it reflected on the radio or TV shortly after. I felt like I was communicating with animals, experiencing little miracles that I kept to myself. I didn’t want people to think I was crazy. These experiences were a lonely treasure: wonderful to feel, but impossible to share.
The body doesn’t lie
In elementary school, my teacher used to tell me: “Relax your shoulders, dear.” My posture told the story of a child carrying the weight of the world. On vacations, my body would protest the overstimulation with sudden ailments such as sunstroke, bizarre headaches, or ear infections. Later, it manifested as gut issues. Looking back, I simply didn’t know where to go with the high volume of energy I had to process every day.
People cost me the most energy. Their presence, their expectations, the unspoken layers of every interaction. I would spend hours afterward processing and analyzing everything. Whether it was gymnastics or scouting camp, I always returned home depleted. I only found true peace in silence, with animals and in nature.
The observer
It was confusing because, as a child, I loved listening to adults’ conversations. I wanted to learn from them, to paint a picture of who they really were. It made me doubt myself: how could people be so fascinating and yet so draining? I told myself to stop making a fuss and just be “normal” like everyone else.
I tried to shut it all off. I blocked the impressions, the energies, and the emotions until I got completely stuck. I developed an eating disorder, a desperate way to find control when I didn’t know how to express myself. When I finally sought professional help, my therapist asked if I could feel my body. I looked at her with total confusion. “Of course not,” was my only answer. I had disconnected from my physical self just to survive.
Choosing ‘No’
Eventually, I needed a major wake-up call to finally wake up to my own needs. To this day, it remains a journey to navigate this sensitivity. I still find people draining, though with the right individuals, being together can be wonderful. The difference now is that I no longer force myself to endure what doesn’t fit.
Recently, I attended a “women’s art circle.” The idea was lovely, but it quickly became a madhouse of overlapping voices and stories. Everything felt tangled together, and the moment I realized I could no longer enjoy it, I simply stepped out. I did the same during a philosophy class. The energy felt heavy and dark, so in the middle of the discussion, I gathered my things and left. I’ve accepted that certain environments, the loud festivals, the chaotic parties, are no longer for me.
I love spending a day with a friend, but I’ve learned that it must be followed by a day of solitude. I need to retreat into the silence of my room or the stillness of nature, where the only energy I have to manage is my own. I used to see this sensitivity as a burden, a flaw I had to hide. Now, I embrace it as my compass. It has taught me to listen to my body and finally honor what I truly need: the freedom to be myself without guilt, without feeling awkward, and without ever apologizing for being “too sensitive” again.