This is Part 5 of a 5-part series, and you may want to read the other parts for more context. Here are the links for Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

I’ve saved this part for last in the series not just because all of the previous posts tie into it, but also because if I’m being honest, this was the hardest one to write. So much of what made me feel welcomed and safe in communities of people who considered themselves empaths was that they validated my general feeling of being misunderstood by others. Many of the people I met in these communities related to feeling like an outsider in the world, like they were different compared to most people and that others didn’t really “get” them. At the time, there seemed to be some truth to the idea that I couldn’t quite fit in or feel understood because my high sensitivity made me see the world much differently – many people couldn’t relate to feeling things so strongly, or being overwhelmed by things that most considered normal life. Building connections with those in the “empath” community felt deeper, and very validating – we not only got each other, we were bonded through our mutual feeling of not belonging to the outside world. I know that part of this is simply the reality of being human: I think most people have struggled at some point to find others who accept them for who they are, and most people feel like there are certain things about them that are weird or hard to understand. But in my case, there were deeper layers than that as well.

One of the hardest realities to accept about complex trauma from childhood is that this type of wounding has a major impact on our ability to form and maintain genuine relationships. You try really, really hard, and you want deep connections very much, but somehow it still seems out of reach – like a language you just can’t quite master. The truth is, the type of genuine connection I wanted was something I actually didn’t have the skills to navigate or even recognize when it was right in front of me. The way complex trauma conditions us creates a painful catch-22 where we have a deep desire to be seen and attuned to, but we also tend to sabotage and push away those very things because they feel foreign and we don’t know how to receive them. Over time, this can start to feel very lonely. It’s like watching the world through a pane of glass: you see what you want and you know it’s close by, but there’s always an invisible barrier holding you back from it. I learned that this is actually a very common aspect of complex PTSD, but it’s very difficult to recognize in yourself, particularly if your trauma stems from childhood. It’s hard to recognize a pattern as a learned adaptive behaviour when you don’t even remember learning it, and it’s hard to see it as a behaviour pattern when it’s so ingrained it just feels like part of who you are. In this context, it makes sense that so many people (myself included) come to conclusion that they are wrong, different, and just don’t belong.

I came to see over time that I wasn’t “wrong” in any way, but I was doing something different that maintained that invisible barrier between me and other people. If you’ve read the previous posts, you’ve probably noticed that with every “empath” trait I described (conflict/anger avoidance, extreme introversion, hyper-intuition), there was a common theme of boundary issues leading to disconnection from others. I’d always assumed that it was overly rigid boundaries that keep you disconnected from others – being guarded, distant, and and having walls up. The opposite extreme of porous boundaries seemed like it should create more connection between people, not less. Being very accepting, open, agreeable, and not having distinct separation between myself and others felt like it should bring me closer to people. In reality, porous boundaries kept me emotionally distant from others.

Relationships based on weak boundaries tend to feel very intense at first. We tend to overshare, be overly vulnerable, and form a strong attachment too quickly by enmeshing with the other person, often idealizing them in the process. The other person might also have porous boundaries, or they might have very rigid ones and be quite distant – I think there’s a tendency to see the latter as a case of opposites attracting, but really, people with porous boundaries and people with rigid boundaries aren’t opposites. They both have unhealthy boundary patterns – those patterns just manifest differently. The intensity of these relationship dynamics (whether romantic or platonic) feels all-encompassing, and gives the illusion of deep connection and intimacy. Often the emotional intensity feels meaningful in and of itself; it seems like it proves something – like you were meant to meet them (and therefore, connection and relationship just occur on their own). But genuine connection and intimacy don’t really happen that way. They involve careful attunement, intentional building, rupture and repair, limits, respect, and trust – all of which happen over time through consistency and honesty. This doesn’t feel nearly as compelling or dramatic as quick enmeshment, so it’s easy to dismiss and overlook bonds that develop more slowly.

My weak boundaries and tendency to enmesh led me to conflate intensity with depth, and a sense of urgency with a strong connection. When that initial burst of intensity wasn’t there, things felt lackluster and boring to me, and I usually interpreted it as a lack of interest on the other person’s part. Of course, the types of people who also wanted that high-level emotional intensity were generally people who had their own boundary issues and histories of dysfunction. We’d often bond through shared wounding and pain, and at first this would feel incredibly validating and like I was finally being seen and understood. It felt like belonging. But ultimately, relationships with weak boundaries lack emotional safety, and over time that feeling of being seen would fade away, replaced by the tension of unaddressed conflicts and unmet needs. I’d feel more and more distant from the other person, and more and more lonely. It took me a while to see that this loneliness wasn’t the result of losing intimacy and belonging – it actually came from the realization that once the emotional high started wearing off, I could see that those things had never truly been present in the first place. This realization can carry an opportunity to create real depth by expressing what we really want and navigating the tension with the other person….but I didn’t know how to do this, and the other person rarely did either. Instead, I would usually lean more heavily on my (mal)adaptive behaviours and coping mechanisms, and eventually things would dissolve.

But slowly over time, trauma-focused therapy helped me slow things down, and as I spent less and less time in high-intensity emotional states, they became less appealing. I began to seek out calm and steadiness, and I find myself caring less about shared experiences and much more about relational skills: listening, attunement, consistency, transparency, and honesty around conflict and repair are much more indicative of the potential for a healthy dynamic. The relationships in my life are far more fulfilling now, and at the same time, they require more of me in terms of skill and intentionality in a way that previous relationships didn’t. High emotional intensity in relationships is a bit like dancing with a big, ornate costume: it’s mesmerizing and attention-grabbing, but the flourish of it can easily obscure poor technique and footwork. When you don’t have intense emotion and drama to obscure things, it comes down to your actual skillset and requires more presence, more engagement, more risk-taking and honesty.

Lastly, although relationship skills and complex trauma certainly played a big part in feeling a lack of belonging and being understood, I have also learned that I am neurodivergent, and this is significant. Not all of my feeling misunderstood was simply a symptom of trauma: I do engage with the world differently, communicate differently than what is often the “norm” in North American society where I live, and have a different sensory perception of the world. Neurological differences like synesthesia, along with health conditions that are common with my neurotype, also make me highly sensitive to my environment and easily over-stimulated. None of these things need to be over-pathologized or “fixed”. I want to emphasize this, because in the time since I began writing this series, trauma has become a trendy topic online, and it has been watered down and over-simplified in the process. It has come to be understood as being like an impurity: you cleanse yourself of it and then you’re fine and “healed” and your life is problem-free. The reality is much more complex and messy. The traits I’ve described in this series have not magically disappeared, and I am not now fully “healed”. I have slowed down enough be mindful of how certain traits and behaviours are playing out in my life and why, and as I’ve developed different tools and understandings, there’s a spaciousness that allows me to respond and make choices more intentionally. I can engage in things that I may have once done only from a traumatized place, but I now choose to engage in from a place of attunement to my body and my needs. With this series, I hope I’ve conveyed how all these factors are complex and often context-dependent, and also how labels of either “empath” or “trauma” can deepen our self-understanding but also limit us when we don’t look past them and stay curious. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading!