Do people tell you you’re too sensitive? Here’s what I took from it …
Dearest Reader,
When I was young, this part of me—this ability to feel deeply—was often used against me. Especially by those close to me. I didn’t understand why my sensitivity, my quiet way of moving through the world, was seen as a flaw. I was told, more than once, that if I didn’t toughen up and focus on getting ahead, the world would eat me alive.
My brother and I 1986-ish? He was one of the few people who made sure my deeply feeling self .. was included. ; )
Even with the loving protective shield of my brother, the comments still flooded on in:
“Chelene, you’re too sensitive.” (Thank you!)
“You read too much.” (What?! lol)
“Why are you so quiet?” (…)
“What are you gonna do with all those notebooks?” (Oh, you just wait and see).
But feeling deeply is how I’ve stayed alive. How I’ve built the work I do. If I’m being honest, my practice of saying no with love likely began back then—long before I had the words for it. My head didn’t know it yet, but my body did.
I remember being around ten or eleven, watching something on TV. I can’t remember the show, but I remember the feeling: the way the music, the colours, and the actors’ body language stirred something unnamed in me. I was fascinated. How did they do that? Was it intentional? Did someone plan the lighting like that? Choose those colours for a reason? Was it the silence that made the scene speak?
I ran to my room and wrote it all down—what I felt in my belly, how my skin tingled, the flood of questions that poured in. All while my mom banged on the door, yelling at me to hurry up and threatening to change the channel. I didn’t fully understand what I was experiencing, but that feeling tugged me toward writing—and I never forgot it. That moment planted something.
Here’s what I know now: We live in a world obsessed with outwardness—speed, visibility, output. We aren’t meant to have this much access, this quickly. Information is always within reach. But for writers, this constant fixation on the external can be quietly catastrophic. What is it costing us to stay tethered to what’s happening around us, instead of tuning in to what’s happening within?
Being informed, is one thing. But absorbing the pain of the entire world? There are limits. We get to set them.
As Audre Lorde shares at the end of her collection of essays A Burst of Light, we can indeed see, love, learn, & report.
And isn’t that our job as writers?
If you know me, you know how much I champion unstructured play as a vital part of the writing process—but I also tell the writers I work with: it’s not just about letting the mind roam. It’s about paying close attention to what surfaces when we observe the world. This is where our unique voice forms.
Being news-obsessed, always on, always absorbing—this pulls us away from the very thing we need most: our emotional landscape. Our inner clarity. Our capacity to feel.
Someone recently asked me if I was afraid of AI as a writer. I said no. Why? Because no matter what I write, I bring something AI can’t touch: emotional presence. Emotional intelligence. The ability to talk about my choices. The self-awareness to speak to the shape of a narrative, the structure of a scene, the weight of a metaphor. If I want readers to feel, I have to feel too.
Now, emotional intelligence feels more urgent than ever.
Imagine being the emotionally grounded writer out there, speaking about your work with clarity and care—in ways that align with who you are. Imagine sharing about your process, your message as a person in this world and having someone else experience that skin tingling knowing.
Tuning into my innate skill of listening, of feeling, led me to:
– Trust my intuition during messy drafts – Make editorial choices rooted in emotion, not ego – Build a career that prioritizes reflection, not hustle – Say no with love, and actually mean it (hello!!)
This kind of inward work isn’t easy. But it’s necessary. And I’m here to guide folks through it.
Feeling doesn’t have to mean being overwhelmed. It can mean noticing. It can mean pausing. It can mean making intentional choices with that emotion as your compass.
I wish I still had that old notebook where I wrote about the “weird” feeling from that TV show. But I carry that moment with me. It was the beginning of the emotional maintenance I now weave into everything I do. And if you're curious, stay tuned—next week I’ll be sharing an intimate look at how I explore emotional depth and self-discovery with every writer I work with.
And nothing—no tool, no tech—can mimic that.
Reflective Question: When was the first time you realized your emotions held power? What did that moment teach you?
With love, Chelene
As always, if you know of a friend who could benefit from reading this weekly share, please forward share. I want these personal shares within the Say No With Love Newsletter to reach the right people : )
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What I'm saying YES to ...
As we know, with every "no" we are also saying yes to something else that we've now organically created the space for. Each week, I'll share what I'm saying yes to whether it's a book, a project, and event, a food ... the possibilities are endless!
Book Nails Inspired by Ross Gay's Book of (More) Delights!
Part of my creative vibe? Nails and books—always. This month, I’m featuring one of my absolute faves: The Book of (More) Delights by Ross Gay. Fun fact: I had the joy of doing a one-on-one live interview with him for this book, and it was as lovely as you'd imagine.
Got a book you’d love to see featured? Send me your cover and I’ll add it to the mix. We get to have fun, too. ps if you live in the Chilliwack area, visit Katie at Grove Salon! She's the BEST! : )
