Sensitivity (or, Why Not to Have a Thick Skin)

I’m an extremely sensitive person. I cried during Air Bud (yes, the Disney movie starring a golden retriever). You know why, though? It’s the part where the kid has to leave Air Bud, his doggie friend, behind. I think there are some bad guys after the dog, and the kid abandons him for his own good. As Air Bud nearly drowns himself trying to cross the river, the kid yells at him “Go back! I don’t want you anymore!” Air Bud eventually gives up and turns around, as the kid cries and paddles away on his canoe (or something).

This scene was obviously meant to be touching, but I doubt many people actually shed a tear. When I watched it, though, I did. I couldn’t help it — I was so stuck on thinking about what that dog was going through at that moment. He didn’t know why he was being left. He would never know. I was overwhelmed with his pain. I empathized so much, I actually cried. And for the record (while you all finish up laughing at me), Airbud isn’t the only dog — or human — with whom I have experienced this extreme empathy. When I see pain, I put myself in the victim’s shoes (or doggie-sized basketball sneakers) and ask myself what they might be feeling. It’s heart-wrenching, but it’s my instinct.

What I wish people knew: with sensitivity comes empathy, and you don’t want to see me on an un-empathetic day. I feel like I am constantly being asked to check my sensitive heart at the door — to stop bristling at criticism, to let a harsh or impatient person’s comment slide, to just duke it out in conflicts both at home and at work. I get down on myself about this — am I too sensitive? Is it stopping me from growing in my career or in my relationships? Would it be better if I just stopped taking things personally?

Maybe. I can see where this strategy would be beneficial. I need to be better at accepting criticism, both at home and at work. If someone is having a bad day and is taking it out on me, maybe I need to just realize it’s not my problem, I can’t solve it, and I shouldn’t let it affect me. But I don’t think that turning my sensitivity off like a light switch would help me, my relationships, or the world at large.

With sensitivity comes empathy. Because of my sensitive heart, I read people and situations on a deeper level than people with “thicker skins” who tend to emotionally railroad others. If someone is in pain, I notice, and I’m right there with them. I tend to remember things about others better than most people. When I remember that you have an upcoming exam, doctor’s appointment, or difficult conversation with a relative, it’s because I’ve already thought about what you might be feeling in that situation. I imagine your anxiety or fear, and it sticks with me. So I’ll ask how it went.

Would you rather I just had a thick skin? Sure, it would mean that when you are flippant or uncaring towards me, I’d let it go more easily — but the same sensitivity that makes me tear up when someone says something harsh to me is what gives me the ability to anticipate what will make someone else tear up, too. This is also what makes me so passionate about justice, locally and internationally. Empathizing with someone who is hungry, alone, exploited, forgotten — that’s the specialty of a sensitive spirit, not an oblivious one. Ask me to ignore my own feelings, and I’ll end up ignoring yours, too, as well as a lot of other people’s.

With sensitivity comes empathy; with insensitivity comes apathy. One night, after a particularly difficult day in which I felt that both my colleagues and my spouse were fed up with my (over)emotional responses, I tried to imagine a world in which we all just stopped caring what other people said about us or to us. In our culture, that is often what is asked of us: we’re supposed to “grow up and get over it.” But what would that really look like?

On a personal level, if I turned off my sensitivity and made a move towards apathy, I would stop being hypersensitive to Sean’s careless remarks — in fact, I would stop caring about what Sean says at all. But I think we all know that would pretty much end the marriage. A “Who cares?” attitude could be pretty detrimental professionally as well. Now, zoom out and imagine apathy globally: world hunger. Who cares?

I’m obviously being facetious — when Sean asks me to “Stop being so sensitive,” he’s not asking me to disregard his words or feelings. We can be sensitive to famine and immune to a colleague’s ranting. Everything is a matter of degree, but I hope that doesn’t distract from the point. I’m really trying to say, in a longwinded way, two main things to think about when you ask someone to get a thicker skin. First, consider if you really want them to do that, or if you are just asking them to “turn off” their feelings for a minute so you can railroad them emotionally without any repercussions for yourself. In my case, I have concluded that my friends, family, and coworkers don’t really want me to grow a thicker skin — they only think they do. It would be bad for them if I did.

Second (related to the first, but on a larger scale), consider your alternatives. We could all work on chipping away at our natural sensitivity. Our empathy would fade away, and apathy would take its place. In the world at large, do we need more apathy, or more empathy?

With sensitivity comes empathy — and I think we could all use a little empathy.