I thought my spiritual sensitivity was the gift. It turned out my body was.

I have never said this quite so plainly before.

I am a spiritual woman.

I sense energy before people speak. I have done psychic readings. I paint soul portraits — faces and forms that arrive through me more than from me, if that makes sense to anyone reading this. I have been this way since I was very young, long before I had language for it, long before I knew how to explain it without feeling strange for saying it out loud.

And for many years...

it exhausted me.

Twelve weeks of writing to you, and I don't think I've fully introduced this part of myself. I've talked about breath, about yoga, about the nervous system, about sound. All of that is true, and all of that matters deeply to me.

But underneath all of it is something I haven't quite said yet.

I am, and have always been, spiritually open.

Energetically sensitive in a way that shaped my whole life, long before I understood what to do with it.

What it actually felt like to be this open

I want to describe this honestly, because I think many spiritually sensitive women read vague, comforting language about their gift and never quite recognise themselves in it.

Being energetically open, for me, meant walking into a room and immediately knowing something was wrong before anyone said a word.

It meant absorbing emotions that weren't mine and not being able to tell, hours later, which feelings actually belonged to me and which ones I'd simply picked up along the way, like static clinging to fabric.

It meant lying awake at night with impressions and knowings I couldn't explain, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with how much I'd slept.

Then I realised something.

I didn't have a body to come home to.

Not really.

I had an antenna.

Not a home.

I was open, receiving, picking up everything — but there was no stable ground beneath it. And a powerful antenna with no base doesn't discern.

It simply receives.

Everything.

All at once.

With no way to know what mattered and what didn't.

I think we've romanticised spiritual sensitivity.

We talk about it as a gift.

Almost never as something that can become deeply exhausting when it has no foundation beneath it.

Because being able to sense so much doesn't automatically mean being able to make sense of any of it.

The turn

The shift wasn't a spiritual breakthrough.

It was something much more physical.

And much more ordinary than I expected.

I started coming back into my body.

Actual, literal breath.

Actual, literal feet on the ground.

Somatic practice in the simplest sense — noticing sensation, staying present with it, learning what it felt like to inhabit the body I'd spent so long living somewhere just above.

I remember wondering whether grounding myself might actually make me less intuitive.

Whether becoming more embodied would somehow dull the openness I'd always known.

I think many spiritually sensitive women quietly fear exactly that.

That coming fully into the body means moving further away from spirit.

The opposite happened.

What actually changed

As I came back into my body — slowly, through breath, through sound, through the same embodied practices I now teach — my spiritual sensitivity didn't shrink.

It sharpened.

It clarified.

For the first time, I could tell the difference between what I was sensing and what was actually mine.

I could receive an impression and know, almost immediately, whether it belonged to me or to someone else.

Whether it needed my attention.

Or whether it simply needed to pass through.

This is the part I most want you to understand.

The body isn't the opposite of spirit.

It's the vessel spirit needs in order to become clear, real and usable rather than simply overwhelming.

Without ground, spiritual openness becomes static.

A signal picked up from everywhere.

Meaning found almost nowhere.

With ground, that same openness becomes discernment.

Clarity instead of overwhelm.

Intuition instead of anxiety.

Knowing what's yours instead of carrying everything indiscriminately.

My sensitivity didn't need to be managed.

Or dampened.

Or apologised for.

It needed a home.

Why I think this matters

I meet so many spiritually sensitive women who have quietly learned to treat their sensitivity as a liability.

Something to manage.

Something to hide in professional spaces, family gatherings or ordinary conversations because being that open around people who aren't is often met with confusion, dismissal or gentle condescension.

Over time, many women begin hiding the very thing that makes them who they are.

I don't think the answer is simply telling them their sensitivity is valid.

That's true.

But it doesn't change how exhausted they feel by Tuesday afternoon.

I think the real answer is much simpler.

I don't think you're too sensitive.

I think you're missing the ground your sensitivity has always needed.

What this looks like in practice

I don't think this requires becoming a different kind of spiritual person.

Or abandoning the openness that's always been part of you.

I think it asks something much smaller.

And much more physical.

Learning what it feels like to inhabit your own body.

Feet on the earth.

Breath moving fully through you instead of stopping somewhere high in the chest.

Sometimes sound.

A single note.

A hum.

A long exhale.

A way of letting what has moved through you actually move on instead of remaining inside.

This is quiet work.

It doesn't look dramatic from the outside.

But having lived both sides of it, I can tell you the difference is enormous.

Energetically open and overwhelmed is one way to live.

Energetically open and grounded is an entirely different one.

The same sensitivity.

The same capacity.

But now held by something steady enough to make use of it.

Rather than being swept away by it.

An invitation, if this feels familiar

If you recognise yourself in any of this — if you are spiritually open, energetically sensitive, someone who has spent years absorbing far more than you were ever taught to process — I want you to know this work exists for you too.

Not only through the more familiar language of nervous system regulation that I often write about.

But through the deeper work of coming home to yourself.

This isn't about closing down what you feel.

It never was.

It's about giving what you feel somewhere real to land.

The Unspiral is where I'd invite you to begin if this resonates.

It's a free twenty-minute felt-sense meditation — my voice, a live flute and nothing else — created as a gentle first experience of coming back into your own body.

Not a lesson.

Not a technique to master.

Just twenty minutes of discovering what it feels like to be here.

In yourself.

Rather than everywhere else at once.

You can find it at soulbreathyoga.com/feltsense.

I don't think you need to become less sensitive.

I think you need somewhere in your own body to come home to.

Because sensitivity doesn't become powerful when we learn to ignore it.

It becomes powerful when it finally has a home.