What if the things you’ve always questioned about yourself… were actually your strengths all along?

For much of my life, I didn’t have the word ‘sensitive’ to explain my experience.

I always felt… different, but not in the way you might expect. I wasn’t particularly shy, quiet, or overly emotional as a child—unless I was hungry, and let’s be honest, that still hasn’t changed. ??

Instead, I was endlessly curious, deeply inquisitive, and bursting with creative energy.

I loved one-on-one time with friends but equally cherished solo adventures that let my imagination run wild. One of my most dedicated childhood pursuits? Playing hotel. I took this very seriously! Armed with old receipts, notepads, and an eclectic collection of my toys as “guests,” I orchestrated an entire world behind my makeshift reception desk. I wasn’t just playing—I was running the whole operation ??. Front desk, manager, and even the occasionally grumpy guest demanding to see… well, me.

But my world wasn’t just built on imagination and self-direction.

Even then, I was unusually attuned to people’s emotions. I knew instinctively when to make my brother laugh, when my mum needed a hug, and the exact moment to tell my dad his pancakes were the best (because he rarely cooked, and that made it special).

At six years old, when my mum told me my aunt had left my uncle, my first response wasn’t about the logistics or even what had happened. I immediately asked, “Will my uncle be okay on his own?”

Looking back, that moment makes so much sense. Even before I had the language for it, my sensitivity was already shaping the way I saw and navigated the world.

The wobble years: shyness, missteps, and misfits

I can see now that my sensitivity was always there—helping me tune into people, situations, and emotions with an ease I didn’t question. But as a child, I didn’t think of it as anything in particular. It was just how I was.

Then came the wobble. The moment where it all shifted.

When my family moved back to the Netherlands after three years in Scotland, I was excited. In my mind, I was stepping right back into the home, school, and friendships I had left behind—picking up exactly where I had left off. I hadn’t expected anything to feel different.

But reality had other plans. ??

Suddenly, the language I could once speak effortlessly felt foreign on my tongue. I could understand it, but the words no longer came out smoothly. And when I stumbled, people laughed. Not cruelly, but enough to make me hyper-aware of every word I said.

I’ve always loved sharing a joke, but being the joke was something else entirely.

Each misstep made me shrink a little more.

So, I did what felt safest: I sat back, observed, listened, and watched. I wasn’t withdrawing entirely—I was gathering. Taking in my surroundings, picking up on the unspoken cues.

It was a skill that would serve me well later in life, but at the time, it felt like I was slowly disappearing into the background.

From the outside, people saw shyness. But that wasn’t quite it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to engage—I just didn’t want to be seen getting it wrong.

That feeling followed me into adolescence, where everything felt heightened. High school only deepened the sense of misfit, amplifying the push-pull of wanting to belong whilst simultaneously fearing the cost of blending in.

I spent those years walking a tightrope—carefully calibrating my words, my reactions, my presence—desperately trying to avoid the risk of standing out too much, but also feeling the ache of losing parts of myself in the process.

Sound familiar? Maybe you’ve felt it too—that unrelenting tension between who you are and who you think you should be.

At the time, I didn’t have the word sensitive to help make sense of it all. I just knew that I felt things—deeply, fully, overwhelmingly at times.

And without the language to frame it, I assumed it was just me. That I was different in a way that didn’t serve me.

But now, I can see that my sensitivity didn’t disappear—it shifted. It adapted to what I needed at the time, helping me navigate friendships, challenges, and the uncertainty of feeling like an outsider. It wasn’t something I had lost. It was something that was working quietly in the background, supporting me in ways I didn’t yet recognise.

Professional life without a "sensitive" lens

Stepping into the professional world felt like entering an entirely new playing field—one where the rules were unspoken, the expectations unrelenting, and the pace set by those who thrived in the fast lane. I was determined to succeed, so I threw myself into roles that demanded skills far beyond my comfort zone.

Public speaking? Nightmare fuel. Yet, I found myself in roles that expected it of me. Being challenged or disagreed with publicly? That felt less like professional discourse and more like standing under a magnifying glass on the hottest day of the year. ??

Everything was intense, everything was high stakes, and I felt like I had to keep up—even when my instincts told me to take a beat and process.

So, I adapted. Or at least, I tried to. I was driven, ambitious, and relentlessly working to mould myself into the kind of professional I thought I needed to be. Louder. More assertive. Sharper in my responses.

I studied how others operated—how they carried themselves in meetings, how they handled conflict, how they brushed things off without overthinking. I took notes. I adjusted. I performed.

And on paper, it worked. Over the next decade, I climbed the ladder. I became known as someone who could handle things—the tough meetings, the high-pressure projects, the difficult conversations.

But at what cost?

Beneath the surface, I was caught in a cycle I couldn’t break:

?? Push myself to the limit—because anything less felt like failure.

?? Sacrifice everything that gave me joy or energy—because I thought success meant leaving softness at the door.

???? Burn out, recover just enough to function, then do it all over again.

At first, it was a day off here, a week off there. Then it became entire crashes—periods where my body quite literally stopped cooperating and forced me to rest.

And yet, even when I was completely drained, exhausted, and ill, I didn’t blame the system. I didn’t blame the pace.

I blamed me.

I convinced myself that I was the problem—that I wasn’t tough enough, thick-skinned enough, or built for the kind of success I wanted. I didn’t know what was "wrong" with me, but I was sure it was me.

The (not-so-instant) lightbulb moment

Burnout didn’t hit me like a sudden wall.

It was more like sinking—slowly, steadily—until one day, I looked around and realised I was deeper than I thought. I was slipping into a dark place, but on the outside, you wouldn’t have known. No one had an inkling—or if they did, they never said. I kept showing up. Kept delivering. Kept pushing through.

I moved between jobs, hoping each new place would be the turning point. The first was awful—an environment that drained me completely. I was at my lowest, but there was still something in me that refused to quit. I kept going. And eventually, I landed somewhere good. Somewhere I wanted to thrive.

That’s when I finally let myself pause long enough to ask:

Why does this keep happening?

So, I started therapy. At first, it wasn’t about grand revelations—it was just about survival. Figuring out how to feel okay again. But over time, through different iterations of therapy, the word sensitive entered the conversation.

And that word—one I’d never even considered before—changed everything.

It felt like stumbling across the missing piece of a puzzle I hadn’t realised I’d been working on my whole life. Suddenly, my experiences made sense: my ability to read the room, my deep consideration of others’ needs, my creative problem-solving. These weren’t quirks or weaknesses. They were strengths.

But recognising my sensitivity wasn’t a magical transformation. It didn’t happen overnight.

Years of conditioning had taught me that success belonged to the bold, the tough, the thick-skinned. So even as I started to understand myself differently, I had to unlearn the belief that I needed to be “harder” to succeed. I had to figure out how to lead my life and work in a way that supported, rather than stifled, my true nature.

That part? It took time.

Sensitivity is a spectrum, not a box

Here’s the thing about sensitivity: it’s not one-size-fits-all.

Just as no two people are the same, no two sensitive people are the same either.

Sensitivity isn’t a rigid checklist of traits—it’s a spectrum of experiences, showing up differently in each of us.

Maybe you’ve read about sensitivity and thought, ‘that doesn’t sound like me’. Or maybe, like me, you’ve felt it—deeply—but in ways that didn’t quite fit the traditional descriptions.

You might not have always had the word for it, but looking back, you recognise the signs:

?? The way you feel things more

?? The way you pick up on what’s left unsaid

?? The way the world sometimes just feels a bit louder, a bit heavier, a bit more

The truth is, sensitivity isn’t just about being emotional or introverted.

It’s about how you experience the world, how you process information, how you move through life.

And understanding what sensitivity means for you can be transformative.

What about you—have you ever felt this way?

If any part of my story resonates, I encourage you to ask yourself:

Could I be sensitive too?

It’s not always an easy question to answer—especially if sensitivity hasn’t been part of your vocabulary before.

But if this sparks something—curiosity, recognition, or even relief—I’d love to help you explore what it might mean for you.

Whether you’re feeling stuck, stretched too thin, or ready to embrace your sensitivity as a strength, let’s start with a conversation.

No pressure, no agenda—just a natter (with tea ??).

You might just find that sensitivity isn’t holding you back after all.

Maybe it’s been your edge all along.

With humour, heart, and a sprinkle of sensitive magic ?

Teresa?

P.S. If you enjoy thoughtful, intimate reflections like this, you might love The Sensitive Insider—my regular newsletter where I share more personal stories, insights, and gentle encouragement for navigating life as a sensitive person. ??

No fluff, no overwhelm—just honest, heart-filled musings delivered straight to your inbox.

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Hi, I'm Teresa—your guide to finding your sensitive edge ??

I’m a career coach, founder of Practical Feeling, and a proud sensitive professional. After 20+ years in high-pressure corporate roles, I learned that sensitivity isn’t a flaw—it’s the key to thriving in work and life.

Now, I help ambitious, sensitive professionals just like you embrace your true nature, turn struggles into strengths, and build careers that feel as good as they look—without sacrificing your well-being or authenticity.

When I’m not coaching, you’ll find me chasing after my two puggles (equal parts chaos and comedy), indulging in Dutch peanut butter (seriously, it’s life-changing), or escaping reality with a magical read and a cozy jumper.

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