Why I Stopped Apologising for Being "Too Sensitive"

For decades, I thought my sensitivity was a flaw. Turns out, it's a finely-tuned nervous system that deserves protection, not apology.

I've been called "too sensitive" more times than I can count. As a child, it was said with a sigh. "Jennie's just sensitive." As a teenager, it was an eye roll. "God, don't be so sensitive." As an adult, it was a dismissal. "You're taking this too personally."

For decades, I believed them. I thought my sensitivity was a flaw. A weakness. Something to overcome. I apologised for it constantly. "Sorry, I'm just sensitive." "Sorry, I know I'm overreacting." "Sorry, I'll try to be less—" Less what? Less me?

Here's what I know now, at 52, that I wish I'd known at 12: sensitivity isn't a flaw. It's a finely-tuned nervous system that picks up on things others miss. It's a depth of feeling that allows me to connect deeply, to empathise fully, to notice the subtle shifts in a room that others walk right past. It's not weakness. It's a different kind of strength.

The problem isn't my sensitivity. The problem is a world that wasn't built for sensitive nervous systems. Fluorescent lights that hum and flicker. Open-plan offices with constant noise. Social expectations that demand endless performance. A culture that values "toughness" and "resilience" over tenderness and care.

I stopped apologising for being sensitive about three years ago. It wasn't a dramatic decision. It was a slow realisation that every apology was a tiny betrayal of myself. Every "sorry" was me agreeing with the premise that my way of being was wrong. And it's not wrong. It's just different.

Now, when someone says "you're too sensitive," I have options. Sometimes I say nothing. I just let the comment sit there, unendorsed. Sometimes I say, "I'm sensitive, yes. That's not a flaw." Sometimes I say, "What you're calling 'too sensitive' is just me noticing something you'd rather ignore." It depends on the day, the person, the energy I have.

What I don't do anymore is apologise. Not for this. Not for the way I'm wired.

Being sensitive in this world is hard. You feel everything deeply. You notice every slight, every shift, every unspoken tension. You absorb the moods of the people around you like a sponge. You need more rest, more quiet, more alone time than others. You get overwhelmed in environments that others find perfectly fine. You've been told your whole life that this is a problem to be fixed.

It's not. It's a way of being that has value. Sensitive people make good friends, good listeners, good advocates. We notice when someone's struggling. We care deeply about justice and fairness. We create art and music and writing that moves people. We're the canaries in the coal mine, sensing danger before others do. The world needs sensitive people. It just doesn't always treat us well.

So here's what I want you to know, if you've been called "too sensitive" your whole life: you're not too much. You're not broken. You're not weak. You have a nervous system that's tuned to a different frequency. That's not a flaw. That's a feature.

Protect it. Rest when you need to. Say no to environments that overwhelm you. Find people who value your sensitivity instead of tolerating it. And stop apologising. You have nothing to be sorry for.

I'm 52. I'm sensitive. I cry easily. I get overwhelmed in loud places. I need a lot of alone time. I feel things deeply, sometimes painfully so. And I'm done pretending any of that is wrong. It's just how I'm built. And I'm finally, slowly, learning to like the architecture.

Anxiously Ever After is written by me, Jennie, a 50-something-year-old highly sensitive person who has finally stopped apologising for it. I live in a rented room with a locked door, which helps. A lot.