I Learned to Read Rooms Before I Learned to Read Books

I learned to read rooms before I learned to read books, and that might be the truest thing about my childhood. Watching my older biological sister succeed in school and bring home all the accolades was one thing, but I was the only child who did not really shine academically. My younger sisters both did so well. One was even set to go to Washington, D.C. on a full scholarship, and my youngest sibling is absolutely brilliant. They are nonbinary, and honestly they are the only one I still speak with. It is nice to have that connection with them.

While my siblings were excelling in school, I was not focused on classes or friends. My mind was always scanning for the next emotional storm at home. Whether it was a door opening too quickly or the sound of a dish hitting the sink a little too hard, I was bracing myself for something bad to follow. I felt everything so deeply as a kid, and that kind of sensitivity is not something I would wish on anyone. It was overwhelming then, and even now as an adult it can still feel crippling.

Living with scanning the room, reading the room, feeling emotions deeply and preparing for the worst I would not wish it on my worst enemy. It is cripple and it is debilitating and if I could turn it off, I could, but the only way to turn it off is to either control it or let it consume you where you make an unthinkable choice you can never undo.

That constant scanning made trust really hard for me. You do not just see the surface level interactions, you see the layers underneath. And when someone lets you down, it does not just hurt in that moment. It reinforces the idea that people will always leave or that I will sabotage things because I am so used to seeing those patterns play out. When my mom did not stand up for me, it was not just about one moment. It made me feel like she valued her relationship with someone else more than protecting me. That is a heavy truth to carry as a child. And now as an adult. Funny, people value relationships with those who can give them more materialitically. They would protect and secure that relationship. If they speak up, they’ll lose them. They don’t speak up they’ll lose me. Which connection is worth it?

Every time someone walked away or proved me right, it dragged me back into that same old feeling that maybe I am the problem. And sure, I have made mistakes. I am self aware enough to admit that. But I also know I have never done anything to deserve the kind of abuse, bullying, or exploitation that came my way. That is the part that is still wild to me, how easily people could turn my struggles into excuses to hurt me further.

I can still remember nights when I lay awake in bed, rehearsing every possible scenario for what might happen the next day. My brain was wired for survival, not for learning math or spelling. That kind of vigilance stays with you. Even now, decades later, I still catch myself scanning people’s tone, body language, or silence for signs that something is wrong. It is exhausting, but it is also a skill that saved me when I was too young to protect myself in any other way.

And here is the complicated part, the very thing that once left me feeling broken is also the thing that makes me powerful today. My ability to read between the lines, to sense what people are really feeling, to hold deep empathy for others, it all comes from those survival years. I used to think being sensitive was a weakness. Now I am slowly learning that it is also a gift, one I can use for connection instead of just for protection.

I do not have all the answers. I am still figuring out how to let people in without expecting them to hurt me. I am still learning how to believe that love can stay. But writing this down, being honest with myself, is how I keep moving forward. Every word I put on paper feels like reclaiming a piece of the childhood I lost to fear.

I have always felt things too much, but maybe feeling too much was never the problem. Maybe it was the world around me that could not handle it. And now, instead of shrinking, I am choosing to see my sensitivity as strength. That is my power. And that is how I will keep going.