The why underneath it all
I felt the rooms before I had the science for them.
I have always been sensitive.
As a child in Brazil, I knew which rooms in our house held me, and which ones quietly drained me. I knew when a friend's home felt safe and when it did not, before anyone said a word. I knew when a teacher was tired by the way her classroom smelled in the afternoon. I knew which house on the street felt like rest and which one felt like work.
I did not have words for any of it. I just knew.
"You feel too much."
For most of my life, I was told this was the problem. Sensitivity was the thing to grow out of, manage, harden against, hide. I did all of those things. I built a successful career inside boardrooms and on building sites where sensitivity is a liability and certainty is the currency.
And the whole time, my body was reading the rooms. Quietly. Constantly. Telling me which one of the partners in the meeting was about to burn out. Which child in the classroom needed the lights softened before the meltdown arrived. Which client's home was the reason their marriage was unravelling, even though no one in the family knew yet.
It took twenty years for the science to catch up with what my body had been telling me since I was four years old. When it did, the research did not feel new. It felt like permission.
My sensitivity was never the problem. It was the lens.