I used to think there was something wrong with me because I could feel the terrain before anyone spoke. I would walk in and know the weather of people, the tightness behind the smile, the grief hiding under laughter, the anger folded neatly beneath the good manners, the tiny shift in air when someone was pretending. Nobody taught me what to do with that. So I carried it in my body, my jaw, in my stomach, in the small bones behind my eyes, in the marrow where truth goes when the mind has no language left. For years, I thought sensitivity meant I was badly made for this world, too open, too affected, too easily pierced by tone, silence, cruelty, beauty, by people saying one thing while something deeper in them screamed. And it was never only emotions. It was light, sound, smell, texture, the sharp white bite of a ceiling lamp, the scrape of a chair across the floor, the wet clicking of someone eating too close, a perfume entering the body like smoke under a door, a voice too loud in the morning, a fabric that felt like nettle against my skin. "Small things", people told me, but small things can strike the mind like hooves hitting frozen ground. You see a reindeer knows when the herd has tightened before the wolf is actually seen. It feels the change through tendon, breath, antler, bone. This isn't seen as weakness when it comes to the wildlife. We call it old intelligence. Now, I believe sensitive people are early warning systems and that is a brutal thing to be in a culture that worships numbness. When you feel more, people often ask you to trust yourself less. Calm down. Stop reading into it. Don't take everything personally. Be normal. Be easy. Be convenient. But the body of a sensitive person often tells the truth before the village is ready to admit it. In the old North, people survived by noticing. You studied the eyes before placing your weight on it. You watched the fence line where the animals gathered because a herd does not shift for no reason. You knew which silence in the animals meant rest and which silence meant danger. Attention kept people alive. An elder wouldn't mock you for sensing a shift in the wind. They would look with you. They would ask where it came from. They would just trust the small warning in the body, because the body has saved more lives than clever speech ever has. So like me I know some of you were born with that kind of listening. Only you were born into loud families, bright offices, broken schools, hard relationships, phone screaming in your hand, kitchen full of chewing, traffic grinding through the skull and polite cruelty dressed as ordinary life. You were told to toughen up while your whole system was trying to protect you,so you became ashamed of your own instrument. Then they called you anxious. Maybe you were. Maybe anxiety was the name they gave to a body forced to live too long around buried truth. Too much light, too much noise, too many human teeth moving too close when your bones were already begging for distance. And that's what I want you to hear. Your sensitivity may be the part of you that refused to die. The wound that came when no one taught you how to hold it. A knife in a child's hand can harm. In an elders hand it cuts bread, cleans fish, carves wood, perhaps what keeps people alive. Sensitivity is very much the same. Untrained, it becomes panic. Shamed, it becomes collapse. Overused, it becomes sickness. Honored, discplined, protected, it becomes Sight. And Sight needs Law. This is where sensitive people bleed ourselves empty. We think because we can feel everything, we must carry everything. Feeling is not a command. You can sense someone's grief and still leave. You can notice disappointment and still say no. You can know a person is wounded and still admit that they are hurting you. You can feel the heaviness in a bloodline and refuse to become its storage place. That's the lesson that saves the sensitive person from becoming a sacrifice.

A note of an old love and petered attachment: I thought you were courage, and maybe you were at first, but we became distortion. Life projects what we need to understand. I appreciate the chance for reflection 🙏🏿 All closure deserves ceremony 🙇🏿 Until no longer. 🌬️ 🔥 ❤️‍🔥 🕊️

Above all, do not lose your desire to walk: every day I walk myself into a state of well-being. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it." — Søren Kierkegaard

October 27, 2026. All closure deserves ceremony.. Until it's doesn't anymore. Dissolving Karmic bondage 🔱

Love ever triumphant 🕊️

Life is too golden too tolerate nonsense. Attention is precious.

Yoni All take shape in the Innards of One’s Mother’s inner chambers This sacred chamber the womb sets up our journey towards the Tomb The in between times that we call Life of many possibilities and pitfalls One may become a Sage, Sorcerer or a Despot Whatever you become learn to bow to the Sacred life making Womb Not just of your Mother but of every Possible Mother, much glory attributed to the Tombs of unknown people But the life making Womb has become a term of abuse. Are we for life or Death -Sadhguru

One will feel the most alive watching the divine mother dance