Maybe that's the whole damn point.

I always thought that I had transformed into a HSP (highly sensitive person) only after my spiritual awakening four years ago.

Somewhere deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. I knew it in whispers and layers. Yet a part of my mind continued to believe it.

And even though I absolutely love who I am right now, there has always been a part of me that saw sensitivity as weakness. A part that questioned why everything affected me so deeply, why I held onto things longer than I should, why I seemed to feel everything more intensely than the people around me.

“Shouldn’t you have gotten over this by now?” wandered through my mind, in different forms, for years.

It still does sometimes.

But last week, during a random conversation with a friend, something shifted.

We were flowing through topics the way we always do when a conversation takes on a life of its own. Somewhere along the way, we found ourselves talking about childhoods. I started sharing pieces of mine. Small moments here and there.

“Damn. It’s been so long since I even thought about all this.” was my first thought as the memories surfaced.

I had worked through so much over the last few years that I assumed those parts of my life were already sorted through. Understood. Integrated.

But one memory led to another, and then another. The floodgates opened.

And as I sat with those memories over the same day and the next, journaling and remembering, something deeply landed in my awareness.

I was always a highly sensitive child.

I knew it before.

But I don’t think I KNEW it before. Not in my bones. Not in the way you suddenly see dozens of disconnected moments rearrange themselves into a pattern you can no longer ignore.

When I was a child, I’d sleep for hours like I was dead. Way more than others, or at least that’s what I was made to feel like. Nobody could wake me up. Not even a bomb blasting right beside me, as my family used to say.

My parents were afraid to send me anywhere because of it, especially overnight, well into my late teens. I was known as the girl who could fall asleep in a snap.

Even in school, I’d put my head down on the bench and sleep for a whole period, with drool coating parts of my notebooks, almost every day.

My mom would tell people, “Shruthi is such a good girl. The only thing is that she’s lazy and sleeps a lot.”

And that's not even touching the bed wetting that continued until 7th grade.

When I was awake, I disappeared into elaborate worlds inside my head. Sometimes through books. Sometimes entirely on my own.

I could be walking to school, studying, helping my mom in the kitchen, doing something completely ordinary, and still be somewhere else.

Food was another refuge.

The one thing that held me through difficult times.

There were weight issues. Oh, and gut issues that lasted for years, too. In sixth grade, I often went home halfway through the day because I wouldn’t stop throwing up or feeling sick. I also had terrible breath because of it, which eventually became another reason to get bullied.

Most of all, I remember escaping.
Into the washroom.
The library.
The corner of our balcony.
Under the covers to read books, squinting until my eyes hurt.
Into my imagination.
Into silence.
Even into compulsive lying.

Looking back, I think I was either trying to escape or, in desperation, trying to see if anyone would notice I was gone.

It’s insane when I think about it now.

In school, I used to take character feedback from my friends every week to improve, so that I wouldn’t irritate people too much and be a better friend. I spent all my 7th and 8th grade taking down pages and pages of notes on how to improve!! What a load of nuts!

As I sat with those memories, more kept surfacing.

I used to steal pennies from around the house and store them carefully in my piggy bank or wallet, alongside the money relatives gave me. Having money made me feel safe. I think I started doing this when I was five. I was saving for “someday.” What that someday meant, I have no idea.

I remember trying to copy the people I admired. Handwriting. Accents. Hairstyles (no one tells a 6th grader that chopping hair at home is the worst thing you can do for how you’re seen in school). Name it, and I’d have tried to copy it. Like a chameleon, at one point, I didn’t even know who I was.

And there is so much more.

Enough to fill an entire book.

There are comments people made decades ago that I still remember. Some of them, I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.

The strangest part wasn't the memories themselves…

When I look at those versions of myself now, for the first time, the overwhelming feeling isn’t shame.

It’s deep compassion and understanding.

I get why she slept.
I get why she disappeared into books and worlds inside her head.
I get why she copied people.
I get why she tried so hard to be liked.
I get why she hid.
I get why she clung to the things that made her feel safe.

I can feel deep empathy and love for that child. I want to run to her, wrap my arms around her, and say absolutely nothing.

Just sit with her. Be there. And let her know she doesn’t have to carry it all alone.

The strange thing is that this compassion arrives so easily when I see her as ‘her’. When I see her as ‘me’ though, something shifts.

Yes, the shame has softened over the years. The judgment has too.

But I don’t know if I’ve fully fallen in love with those parts of myself yet.

Because I still judge myself more than I realise. There is still a part of me that sees sensitivity as weakness. And there is still a part of me that thinks:

Never be weak or lazy.
Why didn’t you do better?
You should have gotten over it sooner.

And yet, when I look at that little girl, none of those thoughts arise.

Only understanding. Compassion. Love.

That contradiction has been sitting with me ever since these memories came flooding back. The difference now, though, is that the Shruthi, even a few years back, would have felt so uncomfortable in her body with these existing contradictions and would have rushed to ‘do’ something out of them.

Today, I just want to let them be...and express them for what they are.

As I continued journaling, another emotion began surfacing beneath all the memories.

Why did nobody notice?

That question stopped me in my tracks.

It also brought up something I have carried for years: guilt for feeling angry in the first place.

Logically, I know every single person in my life was trying their best. We’re human after all. And I’m genuinely so grateful for my parents, family and my friends. On a soul level, I am also deeply aware that everything happened for a reason; I wouldn’t be the person I am today without each of those moments (and I love who I am today), and that they were all a part of my karmic journey.

I know all of that.

And yet, there is anger.

Why did no one notice that a child was struggling? Why did no one see the signs?

Somewhere, a child in me still believes someone should have stood beside her in the way she deserved and needed.

Even writing that feels uncomfortable.

Because another part of me immediately wants to argue back.

No one can do it as YOU do for yourself.
People did their best.
You turned out more than fine.
Other people had it worse.
Be grateful.
Move on.

The thing is… I AM grateful.
And I AM angry.
Both are true.

For years, I’d replay situations that stayed with me and torture myself with them (still do, to a lesser extent).

Why didn’t I stand up for myself? Why didn’t I say something back? Why did I hide? Why did I escape? Why did I let those words live in my head for so long?

Underneath all of those questions sat the same feeling every single time.

Weakness.

I felt weak for crying when I was angry. Weak for shutting down. Weak for disappearing into books and worlds inside my head. Weak for feeling things so deeply in the first place.

A part of me still sees sensitivity as weakness.

A part of me still worries that writing this essay is weakness and that I’m victimising myself instead of focusing on how good my life is.

That I’m being too vulnerable and pouring my heart out for everyone to see.

The strangest part is that these emotions aren’t the highlight of my days anymore. They don’t consume me. They don’t stop me from living my life. They exist more like a hum in the background.

A quiet presence.

They show up while journaling. Cooking. Trying to fall asleep. In random moments throughout the day. They arrive in waves and layers until I can no longer ignore them.

I think the hardest feeling to simply let exist is anger. Because I’ve already done everything I know how to do.

I’ve stood up for myself.
I’ve had conversations.
I’ve sought justice.
I’ve done the work.

And yet, the anger remains.

Part of me keeps asking: What am I supposed to do with you?

And every answer I find seems to lead nowhere.

“Just let it be” sounds wise until you’re the one living it. Then it sounds like something that makes you want to throw a shoe at someone’s face.

I believe every emotion has a purpose. Not necessarily a lesson. But a purpose.

I’ve spent months trying to understand the purpose of this anger.

And every time I go looking for an answer, I run into the same brick wall.

Stop. Just be here. Don’t rush to solve this.

So here I am.

Puking my guts out onto paper.

More uncomfortable than I ever expected.

Trying to let the anger, gratitude and contradictions exist. Without rushing to explain them away.

As I’m sitting here braindumping all my liver and kidneys onto paper, I suddenly notice my jaw.

Tight.

The same tension I’ve been carrying around for weeks now. That’s when I realise something.

I’ve been aware of this anger in bits and pieces since February. The contradictions, too.

I’ve felt them sitting quietly in the background. Showing up here and there. Asking to be noticed. I just hadn’t fully looked at them yet.

And perhaps the strangest part of all this is how uncomfortable I am writing it. I’m usually too comfortable being vulnerable and authentic. It’s a deep part of who I am.

But this feels different.

A dozen voices are running through my head.

“What are you trying to prove? That you’re a victim? Why are you still holding onto this? Other people have gone through worse. You’re privileged. You should be grateful!”

And then another voice arrives.

“You’re really putting all of this out there? What if nobody reads it? What if nobody notices?”

That one surprised me. And it didn’t.
It’s just the first time I openly accepted it for what it is.

Because underneath all the memories, the sensitivity, the anger and the contradictions, there has always been a quiet fear of disappearing. Of not being seen and noticed. Of just disappearing without a trace.

Even now, writing this makes everything feel a little too real.

My throat and gut feel tight. I’ve probably gulped down more water in the last few hours than I do on some entire days.

And still, this feels necessary.

Because something in me wants this space to exist anyway. A space where all my true emotions, contradictions, rabbit holes exist…all of ME gets to exist.

And strangely, somewhere between all the remembering, grieving, questioning, arguing, journaling and writing, there is relief.

Relief of finally allowing myself to take up space.
To own these emotions for what they are.
To stop fighting their existence.
To stop apologising for them.
To let them be seen.

Maybe that was the whole point.