Nowadays, info on being empathic is everywhere. But twenty-five years ago, when I was first grappling with this ability, there was precious little on it. I remember late nights surfing online, digging up scraps to try to understand what I was experiencing. And boy was I struggling.

The “am I losing it” years

At some point, I realized my fast-changing moods and sensations didn’t always make sense. I’d be fine one moment and then, boom, inundated by some strong emotion. Or by hunger pangs when I’d just eaten. Or by dizziness when a co-worker nearly fainted. It took ages to pop my head above this raging inner sea and look around. The idea that I might be feeling someone’s else’s feelings just seemed…preposterous. Then.

I started taking the idea more seriously the day I walked through a crowded mall and distinctly heard myself think, “When I get home, I’m going to get my gun and shoot myself,” heralded by a wave of despair. I stopped dead in shock. I didn’t own a gun, and just moments before, I’d been planning dinner. I spun…frantic, helpless, as people streamed past.

The “mucking around” years

Slowly, I accepted that I was empathic. But I had no idea what to do with that. One moment I’d be happily writing in a coffee shop, the next, swamped by a wave of anxiety. Or something stealthy, like sadness, would creep in like fog and leave me lost and bereft before my brain could catch up. I had no sense of where the feelings were coming from. No way to shut them out.

Hunger and lightheadedness were my constant companions. I’d be out with people, get super lightheaded, and then feel ravenously hungry. Eating was my only way to stabilize.

So, I decided to learn “empathic skills.” Back to the Internet, two available books, and various energetic training courses. I bathed my aura in golden light, painted it pearly silver, and built brick walls with my mind. None of that helped. I sent yucky energy down grounding cords. That gave temporary relief but I felt like a vacuum cleaner.

Mainly, I resorted to mechanical means of finding relief. I’d talk to people if I could, try to find out how they were feeling. (I got some strange looks.) If I found the “culprit,” I’d try to make them feel better, usually by listening compassionately. All so I could get relief!

It was unethical…and disempowered. Plus it didn’t work well because, as I learned, most people I asked had no idea what they were feeling. They were divorced from their bodies and emotions. And the more disconnected they were, the more they broadcast their feelings.

So, how did I improve this mess?

The “starting to have a clue” years

I’m not going to lie and say I found a quick or simple solution to empathic overload. I didn’t. But as I progressed on my healing journey, my relationship with empathy also transformed.

My biggest growth edge was learning to be in my body. Turns out, if you’re ungrounded and not “home” in your body—occupying it with your awareness and energy—then it’s immeasurably harder to keep someone else’s stuff from sweeping you away. I needed a daily embodiment practice. For me, this started with massage school.

How bodywork helped…

Bodywork training taught me how in my head and out of my body I was. I remember sobbing once with an instructor because I didn’t know how to ground. The simple capacity to feel my pelvis, legs, and feet, and the energetic connection to earth that follows…nope. Plus, I could barely feel the knots and tensions in others, let alone the subtler craniosacral rhythms, because I couldn’t feel my hands.

I was fiercely determined to learn, however, so I just kept falling down and getting back up. You’re not grounded, an instructor would say for the hundredth time. Ugh, stomp my feet. Feel my legs. Where’s the ground? I know you’re touching me, but I can’t feel you there, a classmate would say. Ugh, I checked out again! Where am I? What am I doing?

I adopted an embodiment ritual before every session. I’d call myself back in energetically through my crown, tracking as each part of my body became more weighted and alive, until I could feel all of me. Plus, the constant physical touch of massage really helped bring me back into my body. Slowly, it got easier to be home.

How awareness helped…

With embodiment came more self-awareness. And awareness is its own empathic skill. I could feel me, so I could finally differentiate between mine and not mine. And I could recognize sooner when something wasn’t mine. Sometimes that awareness alone was enough. The emotion or sensation would evaporate once I realized it wasn’t my stuff.

Other times, becoming aware I’d picked up stuff meant I could ground it out, or better, envision returning it to the owner, whoever they might be. I learned it’s not my job to process someone else’s emotions and, in doing so, I was robbing them of their journey.

Picking up someone’s energy also drew awareness to unhealed areas in myself. I realized that the things I struggled with most in myself—stress, anxiety, hunger, exhaustion—were also the frequencies I most readily resonated with in others. Picking them up became a signpost: Hey! Attention needed here.

How trauma healing helped…

Ultimately, the “dysfunctional” presentation of my empathic abilities had deep roots, reaching back to childhood trauma and the need to feel safe. Being able to sense others’ emotions and intentions gave me advanced warning when I was in danger. And being able to absorb others’ big feelings helped prevent emotional hurricanes. In that context, my empathy was highly functional. Now…not so much.  

Ongoing somatic therapies have been crucial for my healing. Much of my growth with embodiment and self-awareness needed to happen in the presence of a safe other. And slowly clearing out the trauma load has opened more space for my own life force to flow and fill me.

The “working with it” years

Teaching craniosacral classes was what really stretched my empathic abilities. I’d practice tuning in to student pairs from a distance. Were they grounded? Embodied? Okay? It was like rotating a radar dish and narrowing its listening field. For the first time, I could sense where feelings were coming from. This laid the groundwork for the distance work I do today.

Now, using my empathic sense in sessions is so innate I’d feel lost without it. It lets me tune in to clients from a distance. And it lets me sense, with permission, whatever the body chooses to show and work on. It’s an indispensable guide, though one I always check against the client’s own perceptions.

Do I still struggle with empathic overload sometimes? Sure. People I’m close to are harder. My partner’s the hardest. But I’m light years ahead of where I started. I still feel all the stuff…there’s just more distance, less drowning in it.

Now, there’s more me.