Redefining Mental Toughness: How Sensitivity Became My Greatest Strength
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been called “too sensitive.” A kid who felt too much, who cried too easily, who cared too deeply. It wasn’t said with admiration. It was a warning, a judgment, a reminder that the world wasn’t going to be kind to someone who let things get to them.
I internalized it. Sensitivity, I thought, was a weakness. The world seemed to reinforce that belief, especially in the environments I found myself in. I grew up in a household where psychological abuse was a daily reality, where words cut deeper than any physical punishment could have. My emotions were big, overwhelming, impossible to suppress and therefore weren’t seen as something to be nurtured. They were seen as something to be shut down, ridiculed, ignored.
And yet, I survived.
More than that, I adapted, I endured, and I grew. But not in the way people traditionally think about mental toughness. I didn’t become stoic, emotionless, or “unshakable” in the way society often glorifies. My toughness didn’t come from hardening; it came from staying soft in a world that tried to make me otherwise.
The Misdiagnosis of Sensitivity
It didn’t stop at home. In preschool, my teachers saw something different in me—not just sensitivity, but something they thought needed fixing. They suggested I be tested for ADD, but my pediatrician dismissed it. “She’s just smart,” they told my parents, as if intelligence and neurodivergence couldn’t coexist.
So I was left to figure it out alone.
I struggled with focus, impulsivity, and an internal world that felt too big for the structures around me. I could hyperfocus on the things I loved but completely shut down when faced with anything I didn’t. I was inconsistent, forgetful, overwhelmed, but I learned to mask it. I performed well enough to avoid further scrutiny. I developed coping mechanisms that looked like discipline but were really desperation.
I didn’t get my ADHD diagnosis until I was 22. Two decades of wondering why things felt harder for me than they seemed to for everyone else. Two decades of internalizing every struggle as a personal failure. Two decades of believing that if I just tried harder, I could be normal.
A Different Kind of Mental Toughness
Mental toughness is often defined by resilience, grit, and emotional control. But resilience doesn’t always look like pushing through at all costs. Sometimes, it looks like choosing to feel, even when feeling hurts.
It looks like:
Learning to trust my emotions rather than silence them.
Reframing sensitivity as awareness rather than a flaw.
Understanding that struggle doesn’t mean failure.
Finding ways to work with my ADHD brain instead of against it.
Embracing the discomfort of growth rather than numbing myself to it.
For years, I thought toughness meant enduring without breaking. But I’ve come to realize that true toughness is about bending without losing yourself. It’s about knowing when to stand your ground and when to let go. It’s about choosing compassion over cynicism, especially for yourself.
From Surviving to Thriving
My journey from an emotionally intense child, to a misunderstood student, to an adult who finally understands her brain has been one of unlearning just as much as it’s been about learning. I’ve had to unlearn the belief that toughness means suppressing pain. I’ve had to unlearn the idea that success is about meeting external expectations rather than defining my own.
The mental toughness I embody now isn’t the kind that people celebrate in highlight reels. It’s not about winning, enduring without complaint, or pretending I’m fine when I’m not. It’s the kind that allows me to show up, over and over again, for myself and for others, even when it’s hard.
It’s the kind that allows me to look at my past without letting it define me.
And most importantly, it’s the kind that lets me hold onto my sensitivity, not as a weakness, but as my greatest strength.
