“You’re Too Sensitive

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,180 words I don’t remember the first time I heard it. But I remember the sting. “You’re too sensitive.” It wasn’t a question. It was a correction. A signal to shrink. A cue to toughen up. I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong— just that I had once again responded wrong. Too loud. Too upset. Too moved. Too much.

“You’re too sensitive” is a phrase I learned to hear before I learned what my feelings were even called. I heard it when my eyes watered in fluorescent light. I heard it when the seams in my socks drove me to tears. I heard it when someone teased me and I didn’t laugh fast enough. I heard it when I named what I felt out loud, and it made other people uncomfortable. So I learned to fold. I learned to question every instinct. I learned to apologize before explaining. I learned that the people around me didn’t want to understand why I was reacting—they just wanted me to stop.

What no one saw was what I was managing. The overload. The spinning. The thousand signals firing at once. The way my body absorbed sound and light and tone and volume and facial expressions and expectations—all at once. Being “too sensitive” wasn’t about weakness. It was about wiring.

Sensitivity isn’t optional when you’re autistic. It’s not something I chose. It’s not a trait I performed. It’s the baseline of how I experienced the world. My nervous system didn’t come with a filter. So every room was loud. Every glance was a data point. Every change in energy registered as a shift I needed to respond to—fast.

But instead of being met with understanding, I was met with frustration. Embarrassment. Dismissal. Instead of, “That must feel like a lot,” I got, “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” Instead of, “That light is really bright,” I got, “Everyone else is fine. Just deal with it.” Instead of, “It makes sense you’d cry after that,” I got, “You’re overreacting. Again.”

So I started stuffing my reactions down. Biting my lip. Nodding along. Pretending I was fine. Smiling when I was melting. I became really good at looking okay. Even when I wasn’t.

But the thing about being told you’re too sensitive is—it doesn’t just silence your reactions. It makes you question whether your experience counts. Whether what you feel is valid. Whether what you see and sense and know is real. And when you live in that gap long enough, you start to disappear.

This is why AWRYTE exists. Because sensitivity is not a flaw. Sensitivity is information. It’s noticing what others miss. It’s feeling things before they’re spoken. It’s the ability to sit with depth, nuance, contradiction—without numbing out. And for people like me—neurodivergent, deeply perceptive, emotionally attuned—sensitivity is not a failure. It’s the truth.

I want to go back and talk to the little girl who flinched when the lights buzzed overhead. Who curled up in corners when the noise became too much. Who cried over jokes that felt more like jabs. Who kept her hands in her lap because even small movements were “too much.” I want to tell her: You’re not too sensitive. You’re just responding honestly. The world is loud. And sharp. And often unkind. Your reactions make sense.

If you’ve ever been told you were too sensitive, too reactive, too emotional— pause before you try to “fix” it. Ask yourself: What was I reacting to? What was the environment like? What did I pick up that others missed? What was actually happening in my body that I couldn’t explain at the time? You might find that your sensitivity wasn’t the problem— the problem was being surrounded by people who didn’t know how to honor it.

Now, I’m learning to reclaim the word. Sensitive doesn’t mean unstable. It doesn’t mean needy. It doesn’t mean broken. It means responsive. Aware. Alive. And it means I move through the world with my whole nervous system switched on.

Yes, I cry easily. Yes, I get overwhelmed by crowds, lights, noises, textures. Yes, I need time to recover from too much input. But that’s not “too sensitive.” That’s how my body tells me what it needs. And I’m finally learning to listen.

I no longer want to be the version of me who only counts if she stays quiet. Who’s loved only when she’s smiling. Who’s welcome only when she shrinks. I want to be the version who feels what she feels. Who honors it. Who lets it guide her. And if that version of me is “too sensitive” for some people? So be it.

To the ones who feel like they’re too much: You’re not. To the ones who’ve been gaslit into silence: Your voice matters. To the ones who’ve stopped crying in public just to make other people more comfortable: You deserve better than comfort zones that erase you.

This world needs more sensitivity. Not less. More space for difference. More room for reaction. More understanding of the nervous systems that aren’t built to ignore the world. You’re not too sensitive. You’re exactly as tuned in as you need to be.