I’m sitting in my chair, ready for class to begin, trying my hardest to ignore the feeling that I am about to burst.

I smile nervously at the person who sits down next to me, darting my eyes down toward my notebook as I flip through it, re-reading my work. I’m trying to distract myself from what’s going on around me, but it’s not working.

The sounds in the room slowly build as more people come in to take their seats.

There’s nothing particularly wrong about any of the sounds that are around me, but something about the whole of them feels like an avalanche in my brain.

I’m hearing all of the conversations around me, mixed and vivacious, punctuated by laughter. There are fifty or so of us in the room with more students filing in, filling in the 70 or so chairs. It feels like everyone else is smiling. Should I be smiling? I can hardly smile right now, but I try to. It’s hard when you’re overwhelmed.

I’m aware of a tense feeling in my body.

I’m aware of my stomach doing a flip as I picture being called on in class.

I’m aware of my shoes touching the floor, and I try to focus on sending my breath there, downward, into the soles of my feet.

But still, above all that: the noise. The noise is everywhere.

Beneath the layer of voices, I can hear the rustling of papers. The sound of fingers typing quickly on a keyboard. The shuffle of desks being adjusted. The sound of a notebook hitting the desk. The staccato rhythm of footsteps. The unzipping of a backpack.

None of these sounds on their own is too abrasive, but the whole of them has done something to my body. I am stiff, frozen in place, with what feels like a storm brewing inside of me. It’s like the sounds around me are piling up, overloading me. I feel heightened, alert, trapped.

A breath catches in my throat as I think to myself, it isn’t just the noise; it’s the energy. I can feel the nervousness. The anxiety. The puffing up of egos, false confidence filling the room. None of us is sure what to expect and that buzzing, frantic energy is bouncing around in here. To my body, it feels like an alarm going off. Actually, it feels like ten overlapping alarms going off, all of them a different cadence.

As the murmurs and conversations float around the room, it's as if I've become an unwilling audience to every voice. My mind becomes a ping-pong ball, bouncing between different conversations, trying to make sense of the chaos. The hum of energy grows louder and louder, an ensemble of different sounds competing for my attention.

A cacophony of voices. A creeping anxiety. My heightened sensitivity amplifies my anxious thoughts. Am I the only one who feels like this? Did I prepare enough? Will I say the wrong thing? Do I belong here? I can feel my palms sweat and my chest tighten as I take a slow, jaggedy breath in.

I watch as our professor enters the room and listen to the sound of the door as it shuts. The loud chatter dissipates into a hush.

Another breath, slower this time.

I imagine the energy of all the noise draining out of my body and down into the floor. It puddles at my feet and I picture it seeping down into the foundation of the building, disappearing.

The next few minutes are a little quieter, thank goodness. My instinct to run out of the room and be alone dissipates but doesn’t quite disappear. I watch the clock and try to breathe.

Over the next month, I’ll be sharing micro essays like this one about what it’s like to live as a highly sensitive person (HSP). At different times in my life, I have resisted noise sensitivity, viewing it as a weakness to be avoided at all costs. However, through a journey of self-discovery and acceptance, I've come to understand my sensitivity better, embracing strategies and tools that nourish not just my ears but also my body, mind, and spirit.

Every highly sensitive person and empath has a unique healing journey, and mine has been powerful. I want other HSPs like me to know— you’re not alone. There are other humans out there who get it and who want the best for you. You’re not too sensitive; you are a unique being with so much to offer the world. Now is the time to take your power back and care for yourself.

Your gifts are a strength, and you can learn how to work with them. It takes time, patience, and a willingness to honor yourself. Learning to own it, to own who you are and how you operate, isn’t easy in a world that is increasingly loud, chaotic, and oriented toward non-sensitives, but it’s doable and worth it. As you understand yourself more, and as you express what it’s like to be you in this wild, loud world, you will learn to trust yourself and honor your needs, to take pride in your sensitivity.

My hope is that these short essays help you see yourself with pride, love yourself with grace, and shift the culture away from shaming sensitivity to embracing it.

Not everyone will understand us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t own our sensitivity and be ourselves. Sensitives deserve respect and understanding. Our sensitivity is a gift, not a burden.

Stay tuned for more short stories like this about my own personal experiences, plus resources for sensitives who want to optimize their physical, mental and emotional wellbeing and thrive instead of just survive.

If you’re a sensitive and have a story to share, I’d love to hear from you.

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