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.
On Being an Empath and the Protective Bubble We Build
“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
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