When I was a kid, being sensitive meant getting my feelings hurt easily. It meant crying when someone said the wrong thing, feeling unwanted in rooms that were too quiet, and taking every sideways glance as a personal rejection. I felt things deeply—too deeply, according to some. I was told to toughen up. To grow a thicker skin. To stop being so sensitive.

And for a long time, I thought that was the goal.

I imagined that maturity meant becoming untouchable. That self-esteem meant never flinching, never feeling too much, never letting things get to me.

But as the years have gone by, something unexpected has happened.

I haven’t become tougher—I’ve become softer. Not weaker. Just... more open.

And strangely, more sensitive than ever.

Not in t...

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