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Jim McCrory

When There's Tension in the Room: Some Thoughts on Empaths

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:32


And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him

Micah 4:4



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There’s a moment when the atmosphere shifts—subtle to most, but unmistakable to me. The air thickens, emotions fill the space, and I feel them as if they’re my own. Unspoken words hang like storm clouds, simmering frustrations quietly churn, and the German word Weltschmerz—the pain of the world—takes hold.

This is life as an empath.

For those of us with finely tuned emotional senses, we don’t just witness others' feelings; we absorb them. When tension fills the room, it engulfs me before anyone speaks. My instinctive reaction is to withdraw, to escape the invisible burden pressing down. For years, I thought this response was something to suppress, but I’ve come to understand it’s a core part of who I am.

Yet, being an empath is often misunderstood. In religious settings, where compassion should prevail, I’ve frequently encountered the dismissive phrase, “You’re too sensitive.” This form of gaslighting dismisses genuine emotional awareness as a flaw rather than recognizing its value. Bible principles are sometimes misapplied, used to invalidate emotions rather than support them, as if being attuned to others' pain is a stumbling block rather than an opportunity for deeper connection.

Sensitivity is both a gift and a challenge. It allows me to connect with people in profound ways, feeling their joys, sorrows, and fears—even when they try to hide them. But that same sensitivity makes me vulnerable to discord. When tensions rise, I bear the brunt of emotional turbulence—whether it’s anger, frustration, or resentment.

I’ve learned to respect the need to step away—not to abandon others, but to protect myself. There’s no shame in leaving an emotionally charged room to regain balance. Staying in such an environment only drains my strength. Sensitivity, while a strength, can become overwhelming when exposed to too much negativity.

For a long time, I envied those who seemed untouched by tension, able to brush off conflict or remain indifferent. But I’ve come to accept that my sensitivity is part of who I am. It enables me to offer comfort when it’s needed most or to understand someone’s pain without them having to speak.

I no longer apologize for who I am. Sensitivity isn’t a defect; it’s a way of seeing the world more clearly. Walking out of a room full of tension isn’t about avoiding people—it’s about restoring my peace so I can continue offering empathy in a world that so often needs it. In this broken world, only God’s future Kingdom will bring the ultimate restoration. Thy Kingdom come.


 

 

And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him,

For the mouth of Jehovah of Hosts has spoken.

Micah 4:4


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Jim McCrory

On Being an Empath and the Protective Bubble We Build

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 5 Oct 2024, 11:00

“Resolve to be tender with the young, 

compassionate with the aged, 

sympathetic with the striving, 

and tolerant of the weak and the wrong. 

Sometime in life you will have been all of these.”

― George Washington Carver


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From an early age, I felt the emotions of others more intensely than most, as though they were my own. Being an empath brings blessings and a challenges—a life where the emotional currents of the world are unavoidable, flowing in and out of my awareness. It enables me to form deep connections with others, but often leaves me feeling overwhelmed and misunderstood, especially by those nearest to me.

 

One experience that will always stay with me is the day I heard of a tragic accident involving a family in England. A mother and her two children, on their way to church, were killed, leaving the father to face unimaginable grief. Although I had never met them, I felt the weight of his sorrow as if I were standing in his shoes. The devastation swept over me in waves, his loss becoming mine, and I carried it for days. It wasn’t merely sympathy—it was a deep, overwhelming connection to his suffering, a burden I felt called to bear. I found myself praying for him, hoping that somehow, across the distance, my empathy might offer him a small measure of comfort.

 

This story encapsulates what it means to live as an empath. It’s a constant, often painful, openness to the emotional world around me, where even the unspoken feelings of strangers become part of my inner life. But this sensitivity has not always been recognised, even within those closest, I’ve often felt misjudged. Those close to me have assumed that my emotional awareness makes me resilient enough to manage everything, yet they seldom see the toll it takes. And when confronted with antagonistic, aggressive behaviour, even when passive, I instinctively withdraw. I cannot thrive in environments where tension and hostility—whether overt or subtle—prevail. In such situations, I often find myself making excuses to leave, seeking refuge from the emotional conflict that drains my spirit. I need space from those who fuel their interactions with aggression, for it pulls me into a storm of emotional turmoil that I cannot sustain.

 

Being part of a religion was also challenging. One would expect to find people with a Christlike spirit of compassion, and there were many. However, there were also many who seemed unchanged, with no evidence of the transformation faith is supposed to bring. This disconnect between expectation and reality often left me feeling disillusioned.

 

In this way, my journey echoes that of other well-known empaths. Princess Diana, admired for her deep connection with people, often spoke of how misunderstood she felt in her private life. Oprah Winfrey, too, has shared how the stories of others weigh on her, often leaving her to carry more than she can express. Like them, I know what it means to care deeply and yet feel as though the world doesn’t always reciprocate that care in a way that sustains me.

 

Through all of this, I’ve learned to navigate my empathic nature carefully. I distance myself from people who antagonise or seek to manipulate, recognising that my own peace depends on a safe emotional space. It’s a survival instinct—to avoid environments where emotional aggression, whether direct or passive, threatens to drown out my inner calm.

 

While being an empath can sometimes feel isolating, it is also my way of truly connecting with the world. It has given me a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, to feel, to grieve, and to love. Even when misjudged or misunderstood, I find comfort in knowing that this sensitivity is my gift, a means through which I can share in the struggles and joys of others, offering silent empathy when words are not enough.


Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory


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