SENSITIVITIES
“Actually, maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s you, world. Maybe my inability to adapt to the world is not because I’m crazy but because I’m paying attention. Because yes, I’ve got these conditions and they almost killed me. But they are also my superpowers. I’m the canary in the mine and I can smell toxins in the air that you can’t smell, see trouble you don’t see and sense danger you don’t feel. ”
Dear Hadley,
Growing up, my main enemy was socks.
Pulling them on: the fibers stretching around my feet felt the same way it sounds when you pull a cottonball apart. And once my feet were in: the seams, bunching unevenly under my toes, the heels, slouching haphazardly as I stepped. My toes felt trapped, pushed together, stuck. This was especially bad because even without socks I could feel the bones in each of my toes touching the bones in the neighboring toes through the skin. An inescapable, everyday torture.
My mom (your grandma) bought me thick sheets of moleskin to stick between each toe—creating a barrier for my bones, a way to give each toe its own space. I would sit in my third grade classroom with my shoes off under my desk, my socks pulled off and wadded up on the floor, my toes free. Winter was the worst. Shoe-free summer was my best friend.
My second main enemy was carpet.
It covered almost every room in our childhood home. In the living room, it was this thick, cushy pile that sank as you stepped. Everyone thought it was luxurious—I stayed out of that room as much as possible. I’d put a cotton towel over the carpet in my bedroom to play. I begged my parents for hardwood. I found relief in the kitchen and the bathroom, where I could walk easily, my bare feet touching the smooth, cool floor. No friction, no synthetic fibers, no sadness.
Tags, buttons, zippers, polyester, anything too tight: enemy number three.
Mom bought me organic cotton sweatshirts, sweatpants, and t-shirts from a Swedish clothing company. It was the only thing that felt good on my skin, the only thing I could wear that didn’t make me think about what I was wearing. The baggier the better. Underwear was a nightmare. For years I wore boys boxers under my Hanna Andersson sweatpants.
The rest of my enemies fell into a more general bucket: the way things looked and how that made me feel.
I often couldn’t sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about how bad the color and pattern of the wallpaper in the TV room made me feel and wondering why we couldn't just change it to be more pleasing, less distressing. I had a hard time paying attention in school because the lights were too harsh, too buzzy.
Didn't anyone else notice? Why wasn't anyone doing anything to fix it?
As an adult, artificial and chemical smells cause a large percentage of my distress. I've moved multiple times due to unbearable smells coming in through the old HVAC system or through the wall where a neighbor is using a Glade plug-in. I regularly get in a taxi only to get out moments later when I close the door and smell the sickening air freshener. I love traveling, but hotels are among the worst offenders. I call ahead asking for a fragrance-free room cleaned with chemical-free products. And still, I switch rooms often. Usually because they’re pumping a synthetic fragrance into common spaces or they recently shampooed the carpets in the hallways.
Couldn't they smell it too? Didn't it make their heads hurt also?
But overall, it's much easier now than when I was a kid because I have greater control over where I go, what I wear, where I stay, the things I choose to have around.
It's also much easier because I'm no longer ashamed about the things I feel.
I no longer worry that I feel too much.
I’ve found a deep satisfaction in creating a home for myself. Completely absent of synthetic fabrics or agitating colors. Filled with the right kelvin temperature lighting (because lighting actually does affect mood, there’s plenty of research that confirms this), specific temperature control, distilled essential oils, and nontoxic, chemical-free cleaning products. My home is my sanctuary. A quiet place where everything has been fully considered. A place where it all makes sense.
Your mom called a little while ago.
“Hadley’s doing that thing you used to do with your socks.”
And so I wonder: do you have it too?
By it, I don’t mean any sort of problem — which I thought, for many years, this was.
By it, I mean this great, beautiful, sensitivity.
I secretly hope so. Not because I wish you the torture or the overwhelm, but because I wish you the magic that comes with moving through the world with this alertness.
What I know now that I didn't know when I was younger: sensitivity is a strength.
It’s what has allowed me to do well in creative work. It’s part of what drove me to work for myself—having my own office, a space designed just for me, brings me daily calm and productivity. It’s also what inspires me to make things, to question things that don't feel right, to eat better food, to seek better solutions.
If your socks (or underwear or the artificial ingredients in the food or the smell of the neighbors chemical fabric softener coming in through the shared wall) are still bothering you when you read this, stand taller knowing you got a superpower.
Don't apologize for it.
Use it to make your life better.
Use it to make the world better.
Those canaries knew the truth about what was in the air long before the miners.
I love you, my beautiful, sensitive, niece bird.
Aunt Liz
