NYC as an empath
Are you or your Spicy OneⓇ an HSP?
This stands for Heightened Sensory Perceptor and was coined by Louve Henning as a kinder substitution for the original acronym (which stood for Highly Sensitive Person).
As an HSP, moving through a huge city can be exhaustingly stimulating. Less “vacation” and more “trip.”
Where I was, in Manhattan, it’s not just the urine smells, screaming fire trucks, and sweaty subway passengers all pressed up against each other – it’s the emotions!
So many people visibly at their breaking point. So many feelings repressed, ignored, and avoided.
On my plane ride back, I wrote the following story to share what it's like to be an HSP traveling somewhere busy -- and all before lunchtime!
My daughter and I bike together to the Church of the Good Shepherd. As we glide up empty avenues closed to cars at every corner, rainbows hang from storefronts with an air of expectation.
It’s the last Sunday in June – the Pride parade will be taking place in a few hours.
From out of a hotel entrance tumble three women my age. They’re wearing colorful shirts that say “Free Mom Hugs.” As we lock eyes, one yells, “We love you!”
For a moment, I am their daughter, too, and it feels good.
My 19-year-old Spicy One doesn’t understand. Who would want a hug from a stranger?
As we whizz past barricaded streets, my voice cracks as I explain that not all parents embrace their queer kids. Some folks might be at the parade just longing for a hug from a mom.
At church, the music is glorious. It recharges my social battery to harmonize with the Broadway singers worshipping on key. The sermon is about the lady who snuck a touch of Jesus’ cloak after bleeding for 12 straight years. That was a baller move – she risked dishonoring Jesus by exposing him to her “uncleanliness.”
Jesus isn’t put off by her boldness – he finds her faith incredible. The Pastor says the Pope said once that people need touch just as much as they need food or shelter.
“Always extend touch when approached by any suffering among us.”
An hour later, we are on the subway heading uptown to the Met, and the sweat under my boobs is rapidly evaporating from the too-cold AC.
A man with a speech impediment gets on the train wearing dirty and torn clothes. He begins imploring our car for help.
All the New Yorkers know to look away until he takes his panhandling to the next car. I am frozen, making soft eye contact, a deer caught in the headlights. How can I look away from somebody’s son?
When he yells out, “I’m going to kill myself!” in decipherable English, I get up and put some money in his cup.
“Don’t do that,” I say, “You are too important.” I give him my trademark wink hoping that’s the end of it.
Either God or my conscience whispers that more than money, this man needs someone to see his humanity – not recoil in disgust from his body odor. So I touch his hand. I don’t want to. My Spicy One certainly doesn’t want me to. She is melting in a pool of embarrassment.
He asks if I live here in the city. He tells me about the cross-country bus he once took to LA. I don’t understand much of it, but we connect.
As he exits at the next stop, I feel something like disapproval from the car’s passengers – I encouraged his begging.
At the next stop, the car fills up with a new cast of characters. The man seated next to me has rainbow-colored fingernails. I listen to him help a German tourist figure out how to see the Statue of Liberty. He is kind.
“I love your glittery manicure,” I say giving another of my best winks.
“It’s for Pride,” he smiles at me, but sadness is the emotion that flits across his face.
“And yet you’re taking a train away from the parade? Not a crowd person?” I ask.
“I’m not ready yet,” he responds.
He tells me he’s lived in the city since 1996 and has always felt safe. But just last week he was attacked and beaten in the street for being gay. He turns to show me his red bloodied cornea.
He is also somebody’s son!
We sit in his pain for a few stops. “I can imagine it feels scary to move about in the city after an attack like that,” I say, inviting him to talk.
“Oh, you know…that’s life,” he says, waving his colorful hands.
“Nooooo,” I shake my head, “I want to invite you to give yourself more compassion.”
([FIRST NAME GOES HERE], I know I am life coaching without consent, but I can’t help myself!)
“That is not life. That is circling the edge of death. You had an encounter with evil, and it’s ok to be shaken up for a while.”
He tears up. We’ve arrived at my stop. “Can I give you a hug?” I ask.
“Yes I would like that,” he generously replies.
We embrace as the wind gushes through the opening doors. I whisper, “Please treat yourself with gentleness!” He nods.
I walk off the train – grateful for these tiny glimpses into the lives of people God loves.
We’re not even to the museum yet, and I’m already feeling wiped out. My daughter is understandably seething next to me.
But if she is ever far away from my love, I would want a stranger to offer her comfort in my place.
Three tips for energy management for HSPs:
Get way more sleep than most people. That’s your reset button.
Find proximity to blue space like the ocean and green spaces where you can hear wind in trees. Get up on roofs to get empty space and long sightlines like the animal you are.
Use sound machines, ear plugs and eye covers for daily sensory deprivation. Having a dark room during nap times is crucial.
What helps you navigate travel if you are HSP?
Rooting for you!
Mary