i’m a feeler, and i cry (a lot).
“Tears are a river that take you somewhere…Tears lift your boat off the rocks, off dry ground, carrying it downriver to someplace better.”
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés, ‘Women Who Run With The Wolves’
March 1, 2026
I’m making an effort not to pretend anymore. Not to lie when asked, “How are you?”. To tell the truth.
The truth is I am good, and ok. Privileged, grateful, blessed, safe and cared for. Sad and aching, daily swaying between shock, horror, awe, and a rage I try with all my might not to let swing into disgust because, I heard once that disgust, not hate, is the opposite of love. Hate is how disgust is expressed, and displayed.
I wonder often if all the feelers, sensitives and empaths feel so deeply and so much because we are feeling for all those who do not, cannot, choose not to.
Feeling is a gift I sometimes want to return. Lately I find myself cursing feeling, and then taking the curses back. My cursing is really because of the hideousness of all this “greatness”. This greatness was never great. It was always ugly. And the ugly is exhausting…
As I was flipping through journal pages today, I came across words I barely recall writing.
The page begins with, “I cry alot.”
I cry when I am exhausted from having exhausted all other avenues of pushing through, maintaining, hanging in and hanging on, adjusting, steadying, and problem solving.
I cry to release weight, the kind that threatens to hold me captive and take me under.
I cry to alchemize heaviness, sadness, grief, and ache.
Tears also pour as a result of overwhelm – feeling so much, too fast, my body cannot metabolize it.
Sometimes the overwhelm is joy. A joy that surges through every fiber of me. A joy that springs when I realize, as if for the first time, the levels of genius we possess; the volume and multitudes of genius that births and persists even amidst all that we have, and continue to endure.
Is this not miraculous?
Yes. It is.
It is other worldly the amount of light we embody, generate, give, manifest, create, hold, and carry.
This miracle, we as miracles, is one of the reasons I write. I write to reminds us, and thank us, for the weight we add to this world. Not the kind that sinks us, but the kind that anchors us. The kind that keeps us both boundless, and bound.
“The word sadness originally meant “fullness,” from the same Latin root, satis, that also gave us sated and satisfaction. Not so long ago, to be sad meant you were filled to the brim with some intensity of experience. It wasn’t just a malfunction in the joy machine. It was a state of awareness– setting the focus to infinity and taking it all in, joy and grief all at once. When we speak of sadness these days, most of the time what we really mean is despair, which is literally defined as the absence of hope.”
