Some days, no matter how rested I should feel, I wake up with a heaviness in my chest and an edge to my thoughts, as if the energy of the world has decided to sit squarely on my shoulders. Today is one of those days. I didn’t have nightmares last night; I didn’t wake up to chaos or tragedy. Yet here I am, weighed down by something intangible. Maybe it was the furniture shopping Anthony and I did last night. Stepping outside into the swirl of public energy is never simple for me.
Being an extreme empath is both a gift and a curse. I feel everything deeply—not just my own emotions but the residual energy that clings to objects and spaces. Imagine walking into a furniture store where every couch, every chair, every surface has absorbed the energies of dozens of people. Their stories, their stresses, their joys—they linger, and I absorb it all. I’ve always been this way, and it can leave me utterly drained. Today, I’m carrying the weight of last night’s outing, coupled with whatever unseen forces decided to visit my dreams.
This morning, I debated whether to write about how I’m feeling. The familiar inner critic whispered: “What if people think you’re oversharing? What if they’re tired of your posts?” But then, I reminded myself of why I started this journey—this blog, my books, my music. They aren’t about creating content for others; they’re about healing. They’re about spilling my unfiltered truth before the world has a chance to rewrite it.
When I made the promise to myself to stop hiding, I vowed to write on days like this. Days when the world feels heavier than usual, when my gratitude feels like it’s fighting to find air. Writing isn’t just an outlet; it’s a purge. It’s how I transmute the raw energy of my emotions into something tangible, something real, something that doesn’t fester in the corners of my mind.
I’ve had to remind myself over and over that this blog isn’t about being perfect or polished. It’s not about catering to what others think I should post or how often I should. My books lay bare why I’ve never been the social type, and this space is an extension of that vulnerability. It’s messy, and it’s real, and that’s exactly what I need it to be.
For those who might read this and think, “Why so much?”—this isn’t for you. My words are my sanctuary, my way of finding clarity amid the chaos. If you’re here, you’re witnessing the process, but you’re not the reason for it. My words aren’t crafted for applause; they’re built for survival.
Today, survival looks like acknowledging the gratitude I have for Anthony, my best friend and the one person who steadies me when I’m unmoored. It’s feeling thankful for my dogs, who manage to both irritate and ground me in equal measure. It’s recognizing the beauty of simply being alive, even on days when that beauty feels distant. Gratitude is the tool I wield against the darkness when it threatens to take hold.
Life is beautiful, but it’s also relentless. The thoughts we carry manifest into the lives we live, and I know this truth more intimately than most. Positive attracts positive; negative attracts negative. It’s a truth I share with my clients, and yet one I must remind myself of constantly. Today, I’m doing the work. I’m clearing the energy, shifting my focus, and letting these words pour out of me to lighten the load.
For anyone reading or listening, if you take one thing from this, let it be this: write. Speak. Create. Don’t let the weight sit in silence. Diaries—whether private or public—are powerful tools for clearing your mind and aligning your energy. They’re not about the audience; they’re about the alchemy of taking what’s in your heart and letting it exist outside of you. It’s not magic, but it feels like it.
So until my next entry, whether it’s later today or next week, take care of yourself. Breathe deeply. Hold onto the moments that remind you life is still worth living, even when it feels heavy. And if you need more of my words, you know where to find them—read my books. Write your own. Watch how your life begins to shift. And as always, keep warm. Keep going.