Has anyone ever told you that you’re too sensitive?
I used to take that as an insult—a subtle jab at who I was. The comment felt like a weakness, a flaw, just one more thing that made me different in the wrong kind of way. Can I please say no with love to that thinking now? I can see that being sensitive is not a deficit. It’s not something to fix or grow out of. It’s a gift. A quiet yet transformative advantage.
Sensitivity, to me, is a kind of sixth sense. One that lets us feel the temperature of a room before a word is spoken. One that allows us to notice the blink-of-an-eye moments others might miss entirely. It’s why we flinch at small talk and yearn instead for something deeper. We want to begin in the deep end. To leap straight into the middle of the ocean, not linger on the shoreline commenting on how cold the water feels. We’re here for more.
Yesterday morning, I hopped on my bike for my usual quick ride to the lake. It’s a ritual I’ve grown to love, not just for the ride, but for the mountains. I’ve come to realize I can’t live without mountains (is that why I feel a little off every time I visit Ontario? lol). But what fascinates me most is how the light moves between these peaks, especially in the early morning. The mountains don’t just reflect the light, they shape it, guide it, hold it.
I found myself riding toward the tallest peak, and for a moment, I was standing in that thin, pulsing line between light and shadow. Watching the sun, although just rising, tuck itself into its own belly. It was dying at the same time. Then, in a breath, the sun dipped behind the mountain’s shoulder. One second it was there, and six seconds later, it was gone. Darkness. And I cried. Not because I was sad, not because anything dramatic happened—just because I noticed. And what I noticed moved me.
I turned around, and the light on the other side was blinding. I stood in the middle of two complete opposites.
At first, I was embarrassed—really, Chelene? Crying over sunlight? But the wave of weirdness passed quickly. I let the emotion stretch itself through me for what felt to be about 90 seconds.
Emotional waves aren’t always tethered to rare, dramatic events. They’re curled into daily occurrences. There are in the everyday. They're part of what it means to feel deeply, to live creatively. And if we can learn to trust those waves, to let them show up and do their work, then we’re already writing—even before we reach the page.
This weekend, I recorded our latest Ask Anything video for the Forever Writers Club, and someone submitted a beautiful question asking for tips on how to avoid emotionally flat writing. I’ve taught entire workshops on this (and I’m building a masterclass for 2026!), but the heart of emotional texture, in my view, begins with two things:
- Trust—Trusting yourself enough to let your emotions rise without judgment. Naming them. Letting them live. Stretch. Crawl over you. Trusting your reader enough to bring them along with care and honesty.
- Noticing—Learning to spot the seemingly mundane moments and translate them into something the reader has never experienced in quite that way before and yet feels like they know intimately.
When people say “show, don’t tell,” this is what they mean. Noticing. Feeling. Trusting. It’s not easy work. But it’s the most rewarding kind.
We can’t write what we don’t notice. Maybe Ocean Vuong said it best:
"We try to preserve life –– even when we know it has no chance of enduring its body. We feed it, keep it comfortable, bathe it, medicate it, caress it, even sing to it. We tend to these basic functions not because we are brave or selfless but because, like breath, it is the most fundamental act of our species: to sustain the body until time leaves it behind."—Ocean Vuong.
or
"He has just finished crying and is now entering that state where his jaw shudders to calm itself shut."—Ocean Vuong.
And the most powerful writing—well, it notices.
When we live fully, when we let ourselves feel all of it—joy, nervousness, rage, calm, frustration, disgust—our bodies hold those sensations. We carry them. And then, when we sit down to write, we’re not pulling from nowhere. We’re pulling from lived experience. From memory. From truth.
In my book Let It Go, I wrote about this dying tree that on one side held its leaves longer than it should have. I saw myself in that tree. I felt its reluctance. And because I was paying attention, I was able to capture it—not just as a metaphor, but as a mirror.
Curiosity is essential. Without it, writing becomes a string of “this happened, and then this happened,” and we lose the emotional core. Sensitivity, on the other hand, gives us access. It lets us start from that emotional core.
So no, I’m not too sensitive. I’m dialed in. And if you are too—welcome. You’re in good company.
Lately, I’ve been keeping a folder of photos I take on these bike rides—quick snapshots of moments that moved me. They’ve become a part of my ever-evolving creative process (they also inform what I share here in these love letters). A way to catalogue the ordinary ('cause sometimes that's what life is, a series of ordinary moments spliced with pain & pleasure), so I can return to it when I need to remember how extraordinary it actually was.
And now, when I wake up and think, “ugh, I don’t want to ride today,” my brain gently nudges back: “Okay… so you don’t want to create today?” It's all connected.
Because that ride is creation. Noticing is creation.
And that is the gift of being sensitive. It’s not about crying at the lake. It’s about noticing when the sun slips behind the mountain and letting that moment change you.
Reflect + Rewrite
This Week's Reflection Question: What’s one ordinary moment this week that made you feel something unexpected? Can you trace where that feeling lives in your body—and where it might live in your writing?
After answering the reflection question, revisit what you wrote.
Is there a single line—just one—that surprised you?
Maybe it stirred something. Maybe it made you pause.
Copy that line out. Sit with it.
If you feel called, I’d love to see it. Hit reply and share it with me.
See you next week! If this letter moved you in some way, please forward it to a friend.
with love, Chelene
Founder, Breathing Space Creative
Want to explore more of my work? I offer bespoke writing mentorships, creative support calls, and free creative resources through my studio. But for now, just take what you need. I’ll be here.
