When I laugh, my eyes leak.
When I’m moved, they leak too.
Honestly, they leak a lot.
It’s become a running joke in my family, that I’m the human embodiment of the Tin Man, just one good emotion away from rusting.
But I’ve started to see it differently.
Maybe the leaking isn’t the problem.
Maybe it’s proof that the gears are still turning, that my heart still works.
The Tin Man and Me
The Tin Man went searching for something he already had.
He wanted a heart. But it was his longing, his tears, his tenderness, that revealed he already possessed one.
That’s me.
For years, I believed my sensitivity was a flaw.
I was the girl who noticed too much, tone shifts, subtle sighs, the weight in a pause.
I could read a room before I entered it.
I’d sense tension in a conversation before words confirmed it.
It was as if my nervous system had its own radar.
That hyper-awareness, that intensity, came from years of needing to understand emotions that weren’t spoken.
It was self-protection at first.
Then it became a skill.
Now, it’s my superpower.
How Sensitivity Shapes Perception
In psychology, we call it high emotional attunement.
Your brain processes emotional and social cues faster and deeper.
You can’t not notice things, the flicker of discomfort, the quiet disconnection in someone’s smile.
It’s a double-edged sword.
When you’re wired this way, joy feels electric. Connection feels sacred.
But pain, even someone else’s pain, can feel like static under your skin.
So you learn to filter. To translate. To hold space.
It’s no coincidence that I ended up in branding and storytelling.
It’s the same skill, decoding what’s unspoken, finding meaning in the in-between.
Reading Between the Lines
When I work with someone, I don’t just listen to their words.
I listen to how they say them.
The inflection that lifts when they talk about their dream client.
The hesitation when they describe what they “should” be doing.
The relief when they finally tell the truth, the messy, complicated truth, about what they want.
That’s where clarity begins.
Not in strategy, but in safety.
Not in structure, but in seeing.
Because people can’t be authentic until they feel safe enough to be seen.
And maybe that’s why I do what I do, not to teach people how to sound perfect, but how to sound like themselves.
The Psychology of Feeling Deeply
There’s a theory in emotional regulation called mirror neurons.
They’re what allow us to literally feel what others feel, empathy at the neurological level.
I used to see that as exhausting.
Now I see it as magic.
It’s how I connect.
How I create.
How I understand what someone’s brand really means, not just what it says.
Because a brand, like a person, is a story of longing.
It wants to be understood.
It wants to belong.
Rust and Renewal
The Tin Man cried until he rusted.
And yet, he kept going.
He kept loving.
That’s the paradox of sensitivity, it hurts sometimes.
You rust. You seize up. You freeze when the world feels too heavy.
But then you remember: even rust is proof of exposure.
It means you’ve weathered the storm.
And with a little oil, a little tenderness, you move again.
That’s how I see myself now.
Not broken. Just well-traveled.
Worn from caring. Polished by purpose.
A Heart That Leaks
When I laugh, my eyes still leak.
When I listen to a client rediscover her voice, they leak again.
They leak because I care.
Because the human experience, this wild, chaotic, beautiful act of becoming, still moves me every single day.
I don’t want to be hardened by the world.
I want to be softened by it.
Because maybe the point was never to stop leaking.
Maybe it was to love enough that the heart keeps flowing.
If you ask me what makes me good at what I do, it isn’t my years of experience or my degrees in communication.
It’s the fact that I feel everything.
That I still believe in people.
That I can see the glimmer of truth in someone’s voice before they can.
It’s heart work.
Tin Man work.
The kind that leaks, and shines, and keeps moving forward, one gentle, rusted beat at a time.
