She heard the apology
folded inside the silence.
The tremble behind “I’m fine,”
the bruise in the breath before yes.
Empaths don’t listen with ears
they eavesdrop on the nervous system,
read the cliff notes of collapse
written in posture, not paragraphs.
They carry the grief that won’t make eye contact,
hold the weight of what was never confessed.
She walked into the room and felt
ten years of someone else’s unspoken war.
Empaths aren’t soft.
They are scarred with everyone else’s unshed tears,
armed with radar hearts
and the curse of knowing too much
too soon
too quietly.
UNSEEN: On the Curse of Knowing
Sometimes, being sensitive isn’t about being fragile. It’s about being fluent in frequencies no one else admits to hearing.
This piece came out of a moment where I realized how much we’re expected to ignore. The tight shoulders. The forced laugh. The person saying “I’m good” when their whole body screams otherwise. Empaths walk through a world that rarely speaks its truth out loud, but somehow, we still hear it.
You don’t need words to carry someone else’s ache.
You don’t need proof to feel the tremor of a buried storm.
And just because no one says it, doesn’t mean it isn’t screaming.
To the ones who feel everything before it’s said, before it’s safe, before anyone else notices…
this is your reminder: your sensitivity is not a weakness.
It’s a superpower. You weren’t made to carry everyone else’s pain, but you were gifted with the ability to notice it.
And that noticing matters.
With radical recovery,
Stephanie Dillon