I’ve always been good at reading a room. It’s like a second language I never asked to learn—unspoken tension, silent pleas, the things people try so hard to hide but can’t. I pick it all up, even when I don’t want to. Some days, it’s like I’m a sponge for the emotions of everyone around me. Soaking up sadness, embarrassment, discomfort—all the invisible weights no one else seems to notice.
When I walk into a room, I can feel it instantly. There’s the couple in the corner, whisper-fighting but pretending to smile for the crowd. She’s holding back tears, and he’s gripping his beer a little too tightly, his jaw clenched like he’s chewing on his pride. Then there’s the girl sitting straight-backed at the table across the room, her mother leaning in, hissing about how she needs to “act like a lady.” The girl’s face burns with humiliation, her hands trembling slightly as she folds them in her lap, trying to disappear.
My eyes always find the awkward guy at the edges, tugging at his sleeves, shifting his weight every two seconds. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms or his eyes, his posture screaming, *Please don’t look at me.* I can feel his embarrassment, his silent plea to be invisible. He reminds me of me sometimes.
Then there’s the guy talking too loud, voice bouncing off the walls like it owns the place. He’s the one everyone’s pretending to listen to, but no one actually likes. He doesn’t see the side-eyes or the exhaustion creeping into people’s faces as he ups every story, one-upping tales no one asked for. I can feel his desperation to be seen, to be important, even though he’ll never admit it.
And then, always, there’s the sadness—hovering in the corner like a shadow. The boy with the scuffed sneakers and too-small hoodie who looks out of place everywhere he goes. I see him. I see the bruises he tries to hide, the way his shoulders curve inward like he’s bracing for impact. I think about his life, about what he wakes up to every day. Maybe a father who stinks of booze and shame. Maybe empty cupboards and empty promises. He’ll walk home later and no one will ask how his day went, because no one wants to know.
It’s exhausting to care this much. To feel all of it. I wish I could be like everyone else—laughing, scrolling on their phones, perfectly oblivious to the messiness of it all. Denny says I’m stupid for noticing, for helping. If someone drops their coffee and their papers scatter into the wind, I’ll be the one chasing pages, blotting stains off their shirt with napkins while the person I am with at the time stands off to the side, shaking their head. “Why do you even care?” they’ll scoff. “They wouldn’t do that for you.”
And maybe they’re right. Most people wouldn’t. They’d watch from a distance, maybe even laugh, like it’s entertainment. But I don’t do it for them. I do it because I can’t not do it. Because watching someone struggle and just turning away would rip something inside me. I’d rather be uncomfortable so someone else can breathe a little easier.
Like in the car with my sisters. Darcy hates sitting in the middle seat—she says it feels like being squeezed in a vice. Kelsey is the oldest, so she doesn’t do the middle seat. So, I always volunteer, claiming it’s my “favorite spot.” It’s not. It’s the worst spot—claustrophobic and squished—but I’d rather they be comfortable. I’d rather deal with the discomfort than let someone else take it on. That’s just who I am, I guess.
I’ve tried explaining this to people before, but they never get it. They say I’m trying to “look good,” that it’s just some self-righteous act to make myself feel better. Like I’m keeping score in my head of all the “good things” I do. But that’s not it. I don’t care if no one notices. In fact, I wish no one *would* notice, because explaining why I care so much feels impossible.
Dad used to say I had a “soft heart.” I think he meant it as a compliment, but it doesn’t feel like one now. It feels like a curse. Like I’m walking around with my nerves on the outside of my skin, feeling every scrape, every hit, every ache that isn’t even mine. The older I get, the heavier it feels.
God, I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. All I know is this: humans are exhausting. I don’t understand how we’re all the same species, but we all seem so different. I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one who sees it—who *feels* it all. Why do I care so much about people who don’t even care about themselves? Why do I care when the world seems to care so little?
I need a break. From people. From myself. Just a day where my brain shuts off and I don’t feel like I’m carrying everyone else’s emotions on my back. But even if I get that day, I know it won’t last. I’ll wake up tomorrow, and it’ll all start again.
I don’t know how to stop feeling. And I don’t think I’d want to, even if I could.
I imagine most folks won’t “get” what you’re saying here, but you’re not alone. It sucks to feel everything and notice everything and to have that need inside to try to do something about it. I totally get what you’re saying. And even if most people don’t care and even if it wouldn’t always be reciprocated, I have to believe that sometimes those small gestures, of simply caring when no one else does, that sometimes it finds someone at just the right time and it helps them to keep going. Even just reading this right now hit me at a perfect time when I feel like just giving up. Maybe most people don’t notice … but every now and then someone does.
Thank you for taking the time to comment Christopher. I am on the same page as you 100%! I think it is so sad that so many kind people end up becoming closed off and hard to the ways of the world. A lot of them become cynical and angry at the cards they have been given and I can’t say I wasn’t the same when I was younger. But now I am grateful for the little things I can do when a situation is presented to me. Or that just something I write may help a person realise what ever it is they needed to realise at that point in their life.
The world is made richer by all kinds of people—each with their unique strengths. The tough ones, like surgeons or firefighters, who are unshaken by the weight of their decisions, are heroes we need. We need the soft-hearted ones to nurture those who feel lost and help them find a sense of belonging. The patient souls, who dedicate their time to helping those with disabilities, are essential, too. Every person, with their different traits and abilities, plays a role in making the world a better place, and that’s something I’ve come to appreciate more with time instead of seeing the way I am as a curse or punishment.
Hii, Happy New Year *Virtual hugs*. I am confident that your kindness definitely reached people and it is something people remember about you warmly. But you should also be kind to yourself, step out of the room if it overwhelms you and release your stress because you matter just as much. Prioritizing your mental space is more important than anything. Thank you for being the kindest person, I am sure people like me would have really appreciated it. I wish you a very happy new year!!
Hey! Happy New Year to you as well, sending you good vibes from Canada for this year 🙂 Thank you for taking the time to comment something so nice. Although I had a hard time being kind to myself when I was younger, I believe I have made a significant difference in taking care of my own needs as I get older. I will always go out of my way to lend a helping hand but I try not to get too caught up in other’s emotions nor do I dwell about things I can not change. I don’t beat myself up for not being able to be everywhere at once because I am only me and I’ve learnt to be okay with the little differences I can make. I hope you are kind to yourself as well, thanks again for commenting and take care for now 🙂
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