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There’s a toll we pay for tender things. Not in coin, but in the quiet unraveling of self—in the aching wake of what was sensed, seen, or silently held.

Some days, the cost of feeling comes as a flood. Other times, it’s a soft erosion—like water meeting stone, again and again, until even the hardest parts begin to give way.

But maybe that’s the mercy of it.

To feel deeply is to remain soft in a world grown calloused. To weep over beauty, to ache for injustice, to hold space for another’s sorrow without rushing to fix—

this is the sacred ache of the soul still alive.

I used to fear that my sensitivity was a weakness. Now I know it’s a signal: a sign that the wellspring hasn’t run dry.

So I will sit with the cost. Not to indulge the pain, but to honor the gift.

Because what we feel is often what frees us.

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