A Reflection on Feeling Deeply In A Numb World
There are moments in life when sensitivity feels less like a trait and more like a force that shapes how you move through the world. For some, empathy runs so deep it blurs the boundaries between self and others—between what is human, animal, or even plant. It’s not something you choose; it’s something that lives in you, coloring how you see, think, and feel. For me, it has always been that way.
When Cutting Into A Tomato Feels Like A Crisis of Confidence
It was a warm afternoon, sometime around the tenth year of my being a vegetarian, when I found myself standing at the counter, knife in hand, staring at a big, red, juicy tomato. I was making a salad—something I’d done countless times before—but that day, I froze. As I prepared to slice into it, I hesitated, wondering whether the tomato could feel pain. The thought came uninvited, yet vivid and persistent: What if cutting into this tomato hurts it?
For nearly ten minutes, I argued with myself, feeling foolish even though I was alone. Was I losing my mind, or was I simply recognizing life in another form? After all, plants are living things. My empathy for life had always extended beyond animals, but this was the first time I had trouble eating a plant. Eventually, I gathered my courage, convincing myself that the tomato’s purpose—at least in this moment—was to nourish me. But the feeling lingered, unsettling and real.
Others might reserve their compassion for animals—creatures with parents, siblings, and eyes that look back at you—but for me, life has always been life. I couldn’t rationalize eating beings that once breathed and moved, even as a child struggling at the dinner table with what was “expected.” My sensitivity toward animals wasn’t a choice; it was a defining part of my nature.
The Day I Brought Home A Dead Rat to Bury It
When I was ten, my family spent a month in East Lansing, Michigan, while my father took computer programming courses for his work as a teacher. One day, when walking through the neighborhood with my younger brother, we came across a dead rat sprawled out in the street. Without hesitation, I found some newspaper in a neighborhood trash can and asked my brother to help me carry it back to the small rental house we were staying in. My plan was to bury it in the backyard, to give it a final resting place.
My parents, horrified, quickly took the rat away from us, wrapping it in paper bag and put it in the garbage can. I remember feeling confused and deeply sad. To me, this small creature deserved dignity, not disposal. That moment stayed with me as a symbol of how differently I seemed to experience the world.
The Sparrow Beneath My Window
Just this morning, a near lifetime later, I heard a sharp, gut-wrenching thud against my living room window, a sound I’ve come to dread. When I stepped outside, I found a tiny sparrow sitting upright motionless under the bushes, breathing hard but still alive. The morning air was cold, about fifty degrees, and I worried the chill would slow any recovery it might have.
I crouched beside the little bird, gently putting my hand near its head and it thankfully it blinked which was a good sign. I thought about my yoga class, still an hour away, and how I couldn’t possibly leave the little bird defenseless in the yard by itself. After 20 minutes passed and the little bird still sat motionless I scoured the house unsuccessfully for a small box with a lid and realized I could temporarily put the bird in one of my cat carriers, after lining it with a soft towel to bring it inside where it would be warm. But by the time I returned, the sparrow had hopped away, flapping its wings weakly.
I followed it as it hopped along the side of the house to the backyard, my heart in my throat, fearing it might be too injured to fly. I watched it instinctively hop under the large canopy of my weeping Japanese Maple bush, then suddenly, hearing a rustle of branches and a few faint chirps, I looked up to see it perched among the branches of a taller tree beside it, now safe off the ground. Relief washed over me like sunlight breaking through clouds as I saw it fly off to land in a large oak tree.
Is Extreme Empathy Neurodivergent—Or Simply Human?
Moments like these often make me wonder: what makes a person feel so deeply about a bird, a rat, a tomato? Is it a neurodivergent trait, a kind of heightened sensory and emotional awareness that others might find bizarre. Or is it simply what being fully human feels like, stripped of desensitization and denial?
Psychologists might label feelings such as these as “high sensitivity” or place it under the broader umbrella of neurodivergence, where the brain is wired to perceive and feel more intensely. But labels aside, I’ve come to see my sensitivity as both a gift and a burden. It opens my heart to life’s beauty and fragility, but it also exposes me to the world’s cruelty in ways that are unbearable to me.
My Belief: There’s Nothing Wrong With Feeling Everything
I used to question whether something was wrong with me—whether feeling so much, so deeply, was a flaw. Now I see it differently. To feel empathy, even for the smallest of beings, is not weakness. It is awareness of the value of life beyond human life, all life, for all the wonderful creatures with which we share the plant. With that awareness, I’m reminded of what Gandhi once said: “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” In my book, humanity still has a long way to go. There’s nothing “off” about feeling sorrow for suffering, or horror at cruelty humanity shows our animal brethren. What’s wrong is the apathy that allows harm and pain to other beings to go unchecked.
The world doesn’t need fewer sensitive people. It needs more of them. People who pause before they act, who see life in its infinite forms, who feel the ache of connection even to a tiny bird, who stop to think before they take a bite of their burger. Sensitivity isn’t a disorder. It’s empathy turned all the way up. And in a world that often forgets to care, that is often immune to suffering, it’s the rarest kind of strength a person can have.
