You used to be able to do that, too

Dear Crew,

There's a phrase I've heard over and over again in recent years.

"You used to be able to do that, too."

You used to go to Oktoberfest with me. You used to party late into the night. You used to be different.

Yes. That's true. And at the same time, it's not true.

I no longer believe that I used to be less sensitive. I think I've always been sensitive. I was just incredibly good at ignoring my own signals.

I was tired, but I stayed anyway. I was overwhelmed, but I smiled anyway. I was sad, but I kept going anyway.

And sometimes a glass of wine helped. Or two. Or simply the fact that everyone else was still going.

Today, things are different.

I start to feel tired around ten o'clock. Not just sometimes—almost always. I can hardly handle alcohol anymore. Large crowds wear me out. And I can't watch violence in movies anymore.

Not because they've gotten worse. But because I've changed.

Or perhaps more precisely: because I've stopped numbing myself all the time.

I used to think that sensitivity was something you had to overcome. Today I believe that sensitivity is not a weakness. It is a capacity for perception.

And perception isn't a one-way street.

When I feel the wind more intensely today, I also feel the noise more intensely. When music moves me more deeply, violence moves me more deeply as well. When I am more aware of the scent of a forest, I am also more aware of sensory overload.

You can't open your nervous system just to beauty. It opens up to life as a whole.

Sometimes people ask me if I don't think that's a shame.

No.

I don't miss staying up until 4 a.m. — even though those nights were fun. I don't miss the alcohol. I don't miss the feeling of having to spend days recovering from a weekend.

There's one thing, above all, that I don't miss: constantly putting myself last.

The hardest part is something else. Explaining this to people who have known me for many years.

Because they compare me to an earlier version of myself. And they’re right. That version did exist. But very few people know how she really felt. How often she ignored her fatigue. How often she thought she just had to function a little better.

These days, people sometimes ask me, “Why don’t you come along anymore?”

The most honest answer is: Because I know myself by now.

I know which places nourish my nervous system—and which ones drain it. I know when I need rest. I know when I have to leave.

And I've also come to realize that love doesn't mean always going along with everything, everywhere.

Perhaps our lives will change if we become less and less willing to live in a way that goes against who we really are.

From the outside, it sometimes looks like sacrifice. From the inside, it feels like freedom.

With love and a sensitive nervous system,
Jeannette