Estimated reading time: 8 minutes

The knowing that never lets you rest

There’s something I’ve carried since I was a kid. I didn’t have a name for it back then. Still don’t, really. Some would call it hypervigilance or “survivors superpower”. Others might say it’s trauma-induced sixth sense or intense intuition. But around here, I just call it “the knowing”.

It’s like a spidey sense; not the cool superhero kind. More like the “I can tell this room’s about to shift” kind. Annoyingly, consistently accurate.

How the knowing begins

It started early. Long before I understood what it meant to read a room, I was already scanning it. The tension in the shoulders. The crack in someone’s voice. The kind of silence that didn’t mean peace, it meant something was about to go sideways. When you grow up in chaos, you don’t wait to be told the storm is coming. You feel the barometric pressure drop. You start noticing the flick of a wrist, the shift in someone’s tone, the weight behind a sigh. But it doesn’t stop there. You know which footsteps mean trouble and which ones mean safety. You learn the sound of a door being shut a little too hard. You watch how someone’s eyes dart when they’re trying not to cry, or how their fingers tap when they’re trying not to scream. You memorize the patterns, the change in breathing, the way someone pours their drink. You smell it in the air before anything’s said. And just like that, your body learns to protect you before your brain can explain what’s happening.

That’s how the knowing is born.

The low frequency that never leaves

It’s not a choice. It’s a survival mechanism. And if you’ve lived in survival mode long enough, it becomes permanent, like a low frequency underneath everything you do. It follows you into adulthood. It doesn’t shut off just because your circumstances got better. And here’s the truth: it’s not wrong. Ever. Which is both a blessing and a serious inconvenience.

I walk into rooms and catch things others miss. Not because I know what people are thinking, but because I can feel what they aren’t saying. The way a voice drops. The pause that lasts too long. A laugh that turns brittle. Hands fidgeting under the table. The shift when someone walks in pretending they’re okay. And yes, I notice the light too. The way a body softens with safety. The flicker of pride. The courage it takes to stay. It’s not magic. It’s not mind-reading; its body-reading and tone-reading. Sensing the emotional static in the air before the words even arrive. Just… a curse that grew up with really good instincts.

The cost of awareness

It’s also why I might pull back from people. Not because I’m cold or judging. But because when you sense something’s off and no one else is naming it, you learn to give space. You learn to step back quietly and let others come to their own clarity. And I’ll be honest, in the past? I didn’t always handle it with grace. Sometimes I poked the bear, said the thing, pressed the bruise, just to confirm that my spidey sense was still working. It wasn’t always kind. But when your safety has lived in perception, there’s comfort in proof. In trauma’s logic, certainty can feel like control. These days, I know better. I’ve learned that tension doesn’t always need a spotlight. That just because you can name the truth doesn’t mean you always should. Sometimes the most powerful use of the knowing is not using it at all.

An example I won’t forget

Last March, I visited a coach at their home. The first day was beautiful; easy laughter, good conversation, a rhythm that felt right. But the next morning? Everything shifted and it was never the same afterwards.

I pulled up to the house and stepped out of my car, and the moment he opened the front door, I felt it. Something was off. Not a maybe. Not a guess. It hit me before he even spoke. I looked him in the eye and asked, “Are you okay?”

He said he was fine, as I followed him into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, just staring at me. I asked again, “What’s wrong?” And that’s when he got tense. Defensive. “Why do you keep asking me that? What did you hear when you drove up? What do you know?”

I was stunned. I told him I didn’t know anything, I was just checking in. But again, he stared at me. “Why do you keep asking me that? How do you know?”

And I said it. The only thing I could say: “I don’t know what I feel. I just do.”

That moment wasn’t about conflict. It was about collision; between what was felt and what wasn’t ready to be said. That’s the knowing. It doesn’t ask for proof, doesn’t wait for permission. It just shows up, whether you want it to or not.

Another moment I couldn’t ignore

There was another time, at a leadership event I attended, where the knowing showed up uninvited. It was someone I had looked up to. Admired. But the moment I stepped into that space, something in me tightened. He was struggling, and not quietly. The presence of alcohol lingered; not in his hand, but in the heaviness that hung around him. I felt it in every bone in my body.

At one point, mid-event, he turned to me with a scowl and shouted, “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

I froze. Because I hadn’t said a word. But clearly, my face had. I’ve never had a good poker face. I guess once I feel something, it settles into my features and refuses to leave.

What he saw wasn’t judgment. It was concern. Deep, heartbroken concern. The kind that comes when you feel something unraveling and you’re powerless to stop it. That’s the thing about the knowing; it doesn’t let you look away, even when you wish you could. There’s nothing you can do when you feel things like that. Once it hits, it stays. It doesn’t let go just because it’s inconvenient. You can’t press mute on the knowing. I’ve tried to pray it quiet; more times than you know. And most days, I just try my best not to let it speak louder than love.

How it shapes what I do

It shows up in everything I do. There’s a second frequency I’m always tuned into, a kind of relational sonar shaped by years of navigating emotional minefields. I sense when someone’s about to speak a truth they’re afraid of; I feel the collapse behind their smile, I know when someone’s shoulders are carrying more than just fatigue. Grief lives in posture, breath, and avoidance. And I’ve learned to read these things, not to fix, but to witness. To hold space for what someone may not be ready to name yet.

The silence of pretending

I’m grateful for it most days. But let’s be honest, it comes with weight. You don’t get to relax or be surprised. You smile while waiting for people to become who you already knew they were. And when they do, you nod quietly. You made peace with it three weeks ago.

The hardest part? Pretending you didn’t notice. Sometimes I wish I could turn it off. I wish I could walk into a conversation and not analyze the subtext. I wish I could be the kind of person who says, “I had no idea that was coming.” But I can’t. Because I always seem to feel before they say it.

A lonely kind of gift

It’s a lonely kind of gift. One that often makes you the weird one in the room. The over thinker. The one who “reads into things.” But if you’re someone who has it, you know exactly what I mean. And if you’re someone who doesn’t, bless you. May you revel in the blissful joy of being caught off guard.

It’s taught me a tremendous amount of patience. Because when you already know, you just wait. You wait for people to catch up to what you felt in your bones and for truth to rise without pushing it out of them. You wait because trust takes time, and being right isn’t the goal, being safe is.

What I carry and why I keep it

As for me? I’ll keep noticing, seeing, and sensing what no one wants to say out loud. Not because I want to, but because somewhere along the way, my nervous system learned to be a compass. Not just for danger, but for meaning. For undercurrents. For all the things people feel but don’t always say. According to trauma theory, it’s called adaptive attunement, when your body sharpens itself into a tuning fork. You pick up frequency and read vibration. You become deeply relational, not in spite of pain, but because of it. This awareness isn’t just something I carry. It’s something I’ve learned to steward.

I don’t call it a superpower. But it is something sacred and gosh, is it useful. And maybe that’s the point. It was meant to make me human. Deeply, attunedly human. The kind who no longer sees their sensitivity as weakness, but as calibration.

I’ve prayed to God asking, “Why me?” Why give me this kind of knowing that never shuts off? Why wire me to feel the weight of every room I walk into? But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not a burden to be explained but a calling to be honored.

I didn’t ask for it. But I choose to use it.