Sensitivity – curse or greatest gift there is?

The word sensitivity means multiple things to different people. For some it is a weakness, a plague that puts others offside. Some use it to navigate the world as a protection from the wrath of others. For me, sensitivity has been my ally, my constant companion, my strength and my ultimate offering to those around me.

As a child I was graced with the ability to know what was happening: at birth I knew I was ‘another bloody mouth to feed’, at age one I knew the adults around me were struggling, at two I could feel the pain in my family, at three I could smell the alcohol on my father’s breath and knew that he was hurting. At four I knew my mother had given up and shortly after she had a stroke, and at five I knew that school was not a place to show your gift.

I learnt in spite of the education system, and as an adult, I know now that I was guided all the way through my schooling as the haze created by the vagaries of the education system only prompted me to rely more and more on my sensitivity and my innate knowing. I knew things. I knew when kids were hurting, when teachers were disconnected and in pain, but I had no-one to share these knowings with.

When I wrote from my heart I was asked or accused of copying it from somewhere else. When I spoke I was asked who had written that for me. At age 8 when I spoke up about sexual abuse in my family I was told ‘what have you done’. My parents weren’t ideal role models, but they left me alone enough that I remained somewhat intact. I lived in a somewhat secret world with my knowings. I didn’t let much out because of the reactions of others, but I didn’t know what to do. My parents who obviously were also sensitive, numbed and deadened themselves with food and alcohol. I tried both but without much success, as the sensitivity wouldn’t go away. I remember that once it went close when my brother-in-law told me continually that I was thin-skinned because when I didn’t understand my sensitivities I cried. And cried. And cried.

I cried a lot in my life until in my fifties I began to understand that my sensitivity was actually normal and wonderful. It was not a curse; it was not a fault in my makeup. Now at the age of 57 I am more at home with my sensitivity than ever. I am in awe of my capacity to feel and to know. I waste no time at all on blame or recriminations – if anything I understand, through living with a sensitivity that has not been crushed, the world as it appears is a strange and difficult landscape in which to ‘thrive’.

My gift to the world is to live my sensitivity in full.

I bring strength and focus to areas and people that require that strength. It is as natural to me as drawing breath, but never have I understood until recently that this gift is my offering, my purpose. I have a depth of sensitivity that spans across the ages. I have connections to the ancients and the ageless wisdom that comes only from never having lost touch with it. It has never left me. I have tried to drown it and eat it away, but all to no avail. It is who I am and without having met Serge Benhayon, who reintroduced the world through the eyes of the Ageless Wisdom, I may never have had a word for my gift.

Sensitivity is not a dirty word, it is simply a word that brings with it a raft of wonderment that enables me to relate to everyone I meet, young or old. I can feel them, I know them, and I hold them in a place of deep care. As I react less and less, I embrace more and more this wondrous way of being that is natural to us all. From the depths of my heart and sensitivities to yours Serge Benhayon, I thank you.

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HurtAgeless WisdomBody awareness

  • By Mary-Ellen Bidner, Bachelor of Education and Student of life

    Committed to living ‘true parenting’ and ‘true family’.

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