Category: Social Anxiety & Highly Sensitive People

Under The Ice

First comes the frost
when the threat draws near,
a feeling of being lost
as icy feathers appear.

The cold of that bitter chill
numbs and holds me still,
while a fog blurs every thought.

The weight of the ice sheet
forms its unwanted shield;
I’m stunned — I cannot beat
a false protection that leaves me unhealed.

I am frozen to my seat,
unable to move,
a statue of my defeat —
impossible to prove.

No one can see this battle,
no one could ever tell;
I’m silent in the struggle,
locked inside my shell.

My breathing turns shallow,
my mind goes blank,
my insides frozen hollow;
beneath the blanket, I sank.

My heart starts to race
with an icy fear
that I will have to face
being trapped, frozen here.

Panic surges through me —
there is no way to show,
for my screams are buried
deep in the drifting snow.

The frozen version of me
offers no sign, no clue
of what’s breaking inside
beneath these icy hues.

When the threat finally leaves
and the ice starts to thaw,
my mind begins to grieve
its hold so raw.

As the cracks start to spread,
its grip begins to lift;
slowly it draws back —
I feel the faintest shift.

Little by little the layers shed;
the first to rise is my head.

Next comes my breath —
long forgotten, yet near;
slowly it returns,
but the fear does not disappear.

I look around the room,
trying to understand;
shame floods through me
as I try to stand.

Shaky, confused,
and still in the dark,
I carry the quiet fear
of the frost-bitten mark.

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Feeling Everything as a Sensitive Empath

Have you ever felt the weight of someone else’s sadness like it was your own?

Ever wonder what it’s like to be overly sensitive?
Have you seen others who are?
Struggling to understand why they feel so deeply?

A highly sensitive person experiences the world more intensely than most.

  • Cold water shocks us.
  • Loud noises startle us.
  • Getting hurt physically feels more painful.

But it’s not just physical.
We feel your pain—your discomfort, your heartache—as if it’s happening to us.

We carry the weight of your emotions in our chest.
When you hurt, we hurt. When you cry, we want to rescue. When you suffer, we can’t ignore it.

We must do something. Sitting still isn’t an option.

It deeply unsettles us when someone is unhappy or in pain.
Now imagine feeling all that for others—only to be misunderstood or mistreated.

It’s confusing.
Why would we be punished for caring so deeply?
Why is being empathetic so often seen as a weakness?

They don’t understand why we react “so strongly.”
They don’t get why their pain becomes our pain.

This imbalance? It leaves both sides feeling unseen and misunderstood.

I realized I had to do something.

Slowly Feeling Less

When I began taking anti-anxiety and antidepressant medication, I noticed a shift.

I felt less sensitive. I felt calmer.

I was still me—still empathetic, still caring. But it no longer consumed me.
I could process, pause, and breathe.

It helped me understand how others detach—without being cold or unkind.

I still feel. I still care. But now, I do it with balance.

The gentle, sensitive version of me is still here.
And she’s still a good person.

It’s OK to Feel

  • Feeling means you’re alive.
  • Feeling means you care.
  • Feeling means you are real.

But when you stop feeling…

  • You stop caring.
  • You stop trying.
  • You stop showing up.

That’s not okay.

If you’ve stopped caring about something—maybe it’s time to stop doing it.
If you’ve stopped caring about someone—maybe it’s time to let them go.
If your passion is gone—go looking for it again.
If your empathy has faded—ask yourself why.

Bottled-up emotions only hide who you truly are.
Silence gives others permission to cross your boundaries.

When you stay silent, manipulation creeps in.
When manipulation settles in, you lose yourself.
And when you lose yourself, you stop taking care of yourself.

Then come resentment, anger… and eventually, you begin to disappear.

You stop expressing. You stop showing. You stop being you.

That’s when depression and anxiety start to whisper.
And then shout.

How to Speak Up When You’re Scared

Speaking up is hard. But with practice, it becomes less so.

Find the method that feels safest for you.

For me? I grab a blank piece of paper and pour it all out.
Fast, messy, unfiltered.

I write until the pressure in my chest starts to lift.
That’s when I can breathe again.

Recently, I had two difficult conversations—
One over the phone. One face to face.

In both, I read directly from the paper.

I felt nervous.
I felt guilty.
I felt mean, dramatic, and foolish.

But I knew I had to do it anyway.

Did I feel instant relief? No.
What actually helps is when the behavior stops—or lessens.
That’s when the healing begins.

You begin to see that hard conversations can bring change.
And that makes the next one feel just a bit easier.

And even if it’s hard to process at first, people often come back and say,
“Thank you for telling me.”

The Give and Take

It’s always about balance.

Where you end and I begin.
Where I end and you begin.

Surround yourself with people who instinctively know:
When to step forward,
When to give space,
When to speak,
When to listen.

Be that person for them, too.

Flow together. Respect each other’s feelings.
Be brave enough to step back—and brave enough to step forward.

With all the feels,
Love,
Jenna

If you’ve felt this too, I see you. Feel free to share your story below or write it out for yourself—you deserve to be heard.

“Empathy is the highest form of knowledge.” – Bill Bullard

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Quiet Doesn’t Mean Weak

By Jenna

This one’s hard to write.

Silence is what I know.

It became my default — a coping mechanism in response to mistreatment, unethical behavior, and inappropriate situations.

Silence helped me keep the peace.

It stopped me from hurting anyone — even if that person was hurting me.

I once got bullied in an office environment by a previous employer. The aggression and criticism was obvious — and it wasn’t private. Everyone in the office could see it.

After one particularly brutal encounter, a kind, soft-spoken coworker came up to me and asked, with genuine concern,

“Why don’t you stand up for yourself?”

I wanted to cry.

But even my emotions were always in check.

I didn’t know how to let them out — not safely.

I froze. Completely.

My mind went blank — no thoughts, no words. Just white noise.

Because of my ADHD, I worry that if I do speak up, what comes out might be jumbled, confusing, or emotionally tangled.

I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing — or that it’ll come out wrong and I’ll look foolish.

So instead, I say nothing at all.

She noticed my discomfort and gently walked away. I could tell she felt horrible. She wanted to help. But she didn’t know how.

And I didn’t know how to let her.

What I wanted to say was:

Because I’m afraid.

Afraid of what would happen next.

Afraid I’d lose my job.

Afraid that if I release my emotions, they’ll pour out all at once — and I’ll scare someone, or scare myself.

So I stayed silent.

Because if I don’t make noise, no one gets hurt.

At least that’s what I told myself.

How Quiet Can Start

I’m naturally quiet. I’m an introvert.

And for most of my life, I was undiagnosed with ADHD — which only made my communication struggles harder to understand, both for me and those around me.

I started learning to quiet my outer voice — letting others speak for me or interpret what I meant.

I internalized the message that maybe I really did need help speaking for myself.

That maybe I couldn’t trust my own voice.

They seemed to function better, more easily.

So I let them take over.

One moment at a time.

And that began the spiral:

Who I am.

What I can and can’t do.

What my “defects” are.

As a child, you’re often taught to bite your tongue — so you don’t say something you regret.

You’re taught to share only the positive things.

No one wants to hear about pain, sadness, or discomfort.

So you start smiling.

You start nodding.

You start pleasing.

And slowly, quietly…

You disappear.

Quiet is Radical Inner Strength

Some people look at quietness and see weakness.

They assume submission, passivity, fragility.

But what they don’t see — what they’ll never know — is how much radical strength it takes to stay quiet.

To hold it in.

To swallow your words, your rage, your hurt… for the sake of peace.

Quietness can be a form of survival.

It’s a kind of strength that doesn’t always look heroic — but it is.

It’s showing up to a social situation knowing people will speak for you — and letting them. Not because you’re weak, but because it’s the only way to make it through.

It’s keeping a smile on your face when your brain is screaming.

It’s staying polite when your heart is in pain.

It’s radical.

It’s resilience.

One of the books that helped me recognize my own strength is From Panic to Power by Lucinda Bassett. A quote from her that’s never left me is:

“I’m glad I had anxiety disorder. It was a curse, but it was a blessing as well. It forced me to acquire coping skills that the average person could definitely use, but will probably never be in enough pain to investigate.”

To all my quiet, beautiful, strong souls — I see you.

You are not invisible.

You are not broken.

You are not weak.

Let’s begin to reclaim our voices. One word at a time.

Let’s be heard.

With you always,

Jenna

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Breathless in Social Anxiety

The Critic

It feels like the person in front of you can see right through you.

Everything you’re trying to hide — they can see.

In that very moment, you’re sure they’ve figured it out:

You’re a fraud.

They’re judging every detail about you — and you’re sure they’re doing it silently.

They’ve already decided they don’t like you.

They’re planning to never talk to you again.

Everyone is against you.

Everyone doesn’t like you.

Everyone wishes you’d go away — and so I did.

What They Don’t Know

Inside, the racing thoughts never stop:

  • I need to change.
  • I need to be better.
  • Why is this so hard for me?
  • Why does it come so easily for everyone else?
  • Why does this make me so nervous?

What Does Anxiety Feel Like?

For me, it feels like I’m not breathing — or like I’ve forgotten how.

My breaths are shallow. Sometimes, the words don’t come out right.

My mouth gets dry.

My hands tremble.

My heart races.

My mind goes blank — mid-conversation — and I forget what we were even talking about.

The response I had practiced disappears the moment I try to speak.

Only when I step away, when my heart slows and my mind clears, can I start to reflect:

Why does this keep happening to me?

The Pattern

This is when I begin to connect the dots.

  • The deer-in-the-headlights expression on their face whenever I tried to speak.
  • The labels put on me that confirmed I was “different.”
  • The constant corrections when I spoke.
  • The hazy mind and poor memory that I couldn’t explain.

Going Down the Dark Path

Once you believe it yourself:

“I’m weird.”

“I’m different.”

“I’m odd.”

“I’m defective.”

It changes the way you see the world — and yourself in it.

You start getting angry at yourself for being the way you are.

You start resenting the world for how it operates.

You avoid social events.

You stay home more often.

You begin to suffer in silence.

This path is dangerous. It can lead to severe mental health struggles.

If you find yourself here — please, reach out for help.

Finding the Other Path

There’s another path — but it’s harder to see when you’ve lived so long believing the lies.

It’s terrifying to put yourself out there again.

To risk being vulnerable.

To risk being misunderstood.

But sometimes, something unlocks the possibility:

A lyric in a song.

A scene from a movie.

A moment of loss.

A breaking point.

And you can see the paths in front of you:

Do you stay in the bubble where it’s safe — where no one can hurt you?

Or do you fight for the life you deserve?

The life where you become something more?

This is the moment your true character reveals itself.

This is where your inner strength is put to the test.

How to Fight Back

For me, healing feels like clawing my way out of my own grave.

You can’t see the surface.

You don’t even know what life will look like once you get there.

You dig. And dig.

And it feels like there’s no progress.

You’re exhausted. You want to give up.

And sometimes, while you’re digging — someone else throws more dirt in your way.

That’s the hardest part.

To keep going while still getting hurt.

But if you can keep going despite the pain — something powerful begins to shift.

You prove to yourself that you’re strong.

You’re resilient.

And slowly… you start to see the progress.

You dig deeper.

You dig harder.

You fear less.

You prepare more.

People around you begin to notice.

You begin to return to your true self.

If you’ve walked a path like mine, leave a comment or hit the like button.

For the healing hearts,

Jenna

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