The Young Empath

Please read The Adult Empath First to get the best grip of these tales.

As a young empath, large group settings were my personal version of hell. I had no idea that what I was feeling wasn’t just me. It was everyone else’s emotions too. I was an open door, just wide enough for all the negative and positive baggage of others to flood in. Picture a little girl preschool aged, overwhelmed by emotions she couldn’t even name, much less understand. I spent a lot of time suffering alone, feeling like I was drowning in everyone else’s moods. Sometimes it was so intense I would just shut down.

I remember so many moments when I felt trapped by the weight of everything and everyone, paralyzed, unable to speak. When this happened, the nice people would say, “Oh, she’s just shy.” But when those nice people were nowhere in sight, I’d hear the cruel shouts of, “DO YOU TALK? Hello? Anyone home?”

And in my mind, I was screaming, “YES! I DO TALK AND I’M RIGHT HERE!” But, of course, not a single word came out. A complete waste of energy. It’s like I was frozen, trapped inside my own body. I didn’t understand why it was happening, but I felt every bit of it. Sometimes, the anxiety would be so intense, I’d forget to breathe—and that’s when the tears would come. Was this the beginning of my anxiety? Who knows, but I’m pretty sure it’s the first chapter of my emotional rollercoaster.

Now, my parents were very young when they had kids. My dad worked six days a week as a car sales manager in Manhattan, which, as you can imagine, came with a truckload of stress. He’d get home late, tired, annoyed by traffic, and—let’s not forget—hangry. And his stress? It seeped out of him like bad cologne. The moment he stepped through the door, I could feel it. Of course, I didn’t know that’s what was happening at the time. I just assumed he was this scary guy with a booming voice and presence who did not like small children. So, I hid. I’d avoid him because I couldn’t bear to feel the cold rush of anxiety that came with his energy. My sisters, on the other hand? They seemed completely unfazed by Dad. They talked to him like he was a human being, not some kind of terrifying giant. They’d even argue with him—something I could never have imagined. I envied them. Their relationship with him appeared so easy, like they didn’t carry any emotional baggage. I thought, “Well, Dad must love and care for them more than me.”

Looking back now, I get it. The unease I felt around Dad wasn’t because he didn’t love me—it was because I was an empath. Every ounce of stress, fear, and anxiety Dad felt, I felt too. But as a little girl, I didn’t have the tools to understand it. Heck, I didn’t even have the vocabulary. So, I interpreted it all wrong. To this day, Dad still says, “Sandy was afraid of me when she was little.” And he’s right. I was scared. But now, I know why.

The Young Empath+Mediumship

My father’s younger brother, Uncle Gary, that was a completely different story. Uncle Gary was my absolute favorite. He was energetic, silly, and always up for playing. I remember him flinging me around like I was a rag doll (I’m still not sure how safe that was, but it was fun). I’d soar through the air, weightless, only to be caught in his arms again. Every moment with him was full of joy, safety, and absolute carefree fun.

But, of course, tragedy struck. Uncle Gary and his fiancée Ellen were killed in a horrible motorcycle accident. I was only four years old, and my parents decided I was too young to know what had happened. They didn’t tell me. But let me tell you, it’s impossible to hide anything from a child who’s an empath.

The day of the funeral, I was staying with my maternal grandmother, Shirley. It was supposed to be a fun day, just me and Grandma, but I was about to have an experience that would make my parents realize just how “gifted” I was. After dinner, Grandma bathed us and tucked me into bed. But that night, I woke up with a sense of fear so overwhelming that I ran to my parents’ bedroom and crawled under the covers next to Mom.

That was the night my parents realized I wasn’t just your average four-year-old.

Here’s how Mom remembers it:

“Mommy,” I whispered.

“Mmhmm,” Mom replied, probably half asleep after an emotional day.

“I see Uncle Gary.”

Suddenly, the hairs on Mom’s neck stood up, and she felt a cold chill run down her spine. She was terrified of what I might say, but she gathered her courage and asked, “What’s he doing?”

“He’s waving,” I said, casually.

Mom froze. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing—and, even more bizarre, Dad was sleeping right through it all.

A few moments later, Mom asked, “Is he still there?”

“Yes. And Ellen too.”

Silence.

Mom, trying to hold it together, asked, “What do you see now?”

I giggled and then read the letters I saw floating in the air. “G-A-R-Y E-L-L-E-N.”

And that, my friends, was the moment my parents realized their daughter had some serious intuition going on. I guess I’ve always had the ability to tap into energies and emotions, but at that time, I had no clue what was happening. And it wasn’t until later that I began to understand just how much of the world around me was… felt rather than seen.

Gary’s death was a heartbreak for our entire family. But the vision I had of him and Ellen brought some peace of mind, especially to my Grandma Lynn, who was Dad’s mother, and Dad himself. It wasn’t until my teenage years that I truly felt Uncle Gary’s loss. Up until then, he’d appear most nights in my dreams—well, nightmares, if we’re being honest.

There’s one recurring nightmare I had that I can still picture so vividly. It always took place outside my childhood home, on the same hill. The neighbors’ houses would glow warmly in the evening, and there I was, frozen, with fear crawling up my spine. The voices would start behind me, distant at first, but growing louder. Soon, I’d see the shapes of men, moving toward me. I knew in my gut that if I didn’t run, they’d catch me and hurt me. But, of course, my fear kept me rooted in place.

Then, I’d hear his voice. Uncle Gary. I could see him clearly, healthy, alive, and strong, his thick black hair bouncing as he sprinted toward me.

“Hey, it’s ok. I can handle these guys. Go. You’re safe.”

And just like that, I’d be able to move my feet again. I’d bolt up the driveway like a racehorse, heart pounding in my chest. When I finally made it to the top, I’d glance back and see the figures shrinking in the distance, knowing that Gary had taken care of them for good.

Those dreams went on for years, slowly becoming more and more infrequent. When I was lucky enough to have one, it was a treat. But one night, the nightmare came back—and this time, Gary wasn’t there. I was alone, and I knew then that he’d moved on. Even now, every once in a while, I’ll still get the same nightmare. And every time I wake up, I think of Gary and smile, grateful for the hundreds of times I was blessed to see him in my dreams, even if they were nightmares. His presence, even in the shadows of my sleep, felt like a tether to something deeper—something that both comforted and unsettled me.

At the time, I had no idea the significance of what had happened. I was just a four-year-old who saw my uncle waving at me, spelling out names I shouldn’t have known how to spell. But years later, I would come to understand that my innocent conversation with my mother that night wasn’t just a strange, eerie childhood memory—it was a gift. A gift of peace, of closure, for a family shattered by sudden, unimaginable loss. My mother, still rattled by what I had seen, couldn’t keep it to herself. She told my father, who told his sister, and eventually, the story reached my grandmother—Grandma Lynn.

Grandma Lynn had lost her son in the blink of an eye. One moment, Gary was alive, vibrant, full of laughter—the next, he was gone. She hadn’t had time to say goodbye. There were no warnings, no signs, just a phone call that changed her world forever. But when she heard what I had seen, something in her softened. For the first time since the accident, she allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—Gary wasn’t really gone. That somewhere, in some way, he was okay. That vision of him waving, standing with Ellen, was a lifeline, however fragile, to the son she lost too soon. And though I wouldn’t fully grasp it until years later, my ability to see what others couldn’t had already begun its work—bringing peace to those who needed it most.

Shortly after Gary’s death, I was entered into school, thrown into a world that felt both foreign and overwhelming.

School Years

School was definitely not for me, especially being an empath. I remember crying almost every single day in preschool like it was my full-time job. Seriously, I was clocking in with tears before snack time. Maybe I thought my emotional distress was a prerequisite for learning, or maybe I just knew, on some gut level, that this whole structured education thing wasn’t going to be my scene.

My mom would drop me off with a group of neighborhood and Hebrew school kids, most of whom were a year older than me and acted like seasoned professionals. Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive the emotional minefield of other people’s energy, wondering why no one else seemed to be experiencing the same level of existential dread over circle time. These kids were in the business of being children. They weren’t empaths. They weren’t mediums. They weren’t anxiously analyzing every adult’s facial expression wondering, “Do they secretly hate me?” They were just out there finger-painting with wild abandon and daring to try new things like it was no big deal.

Meanwhile, there I was, tiny, cautious, and mildly suspicious of everyone over the age of 25. The adults watched us. Like really watched us. I always felt like they were two seconds away from putting us in a toddler Hunger Games if we so much as colored outside the lines.

One of my earliest traumatic memories? Getting in trouble for eating the glue. But it wasn’t just any glue—it was the sugar glue we made. You mean to tell me we just whipped up a batch of sugar paste and we’re not supposed to sample it? That’s a trap. I’m still not over it.

But the real kicker was the infamous handprint clay project. We were supposed to roll out a piece of clay and the teachers would press our tiny little hands into it to create a lifelong memory for our parents. Cute, right? Except, I don’t remember the directions. At all. Maybe I was too busy being overwhelmed by the vibrations in the room, or maybe I was still thinking about how unfair it was that I couldn’t eat the edible glue. Whatever the reason, I completely missed the memo.

Fast forward a few days, the clay comes back, cooked, solidified, immortalized—and we were finally going to paint it. The handprint was supposed to stay white while we painted a colorful outline around it. Easy enough. I picked yellow. Sunshine. Happiness. Joy. All the things I was actively trying to manifest as a clearly overstimulated four-year-old.

I was so proud. I dipped my little brush into that sunshiney yellow paint and began carefully swirling it inside my handprint. Because, of course, I wanted to fill my hand with happiness. But alas, happiness was not on the curriculum that day.

Suddenly, one of the teachers—who, let’s be real, could’ve been Gremlin’s older, scarier cousin, or maybe Gremlin herself in a past life—screamed across the room. “NOOOO!” She stomped over, grabbed my hand way too hard, and yanked it like I’d just committed a war crime with tempera paint. My hand throbbed. My eyes welled. My nervous system short-circuited.

I cried instantly. It wasn’t even a delayed cry. It was an immediate trauma download. But then, like a beam of light, a nice teacher appeared. She gently hugged me and asked Gremlin Sr. what happened. Gremlin snapped, “She’s painting inside the hand!”

And this angelic teacher, without skipping a beat, looked at her and said, “That’s okay. It’s her hand. She can do what she likes.”

Mic drop.

My mom hung that yellow-filled handprint on our kitchen wall like it was a Picasso. And let me tell you—it stayed there all the way until we moved when I was in ninth grade. Every time I looked at it, I remembered two things:

1. I was right to trust my artistic vision.

2. Adults are not always right, especially when they scream at children over paint.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the first time I realized I was going to have to advocate for myself, yellow paint and all.

It was also one of my earliest lessons in feeling energy. Before the yelling, the hand grab, and the tempera paint tyranny, I already felt something was off. The air was thick with control, with rigidity. My little empathic self could sense it, but I didn’t yet have the words for it. The older I got, the more I would come to understand that this was more than just being a sensitive kid, it was intuition. A knowing. The same knowing that would guide me through friendships, through the classroom, through life. The same knowing that would eventually tell me when I was in the presence of something unseen.

KINDERGARTEN: THE BOOGER YEARS

By the time I got to kindergarten, my school-related fears were still very much alive, just a bit more domesticated. Let’s call it “preschool PTSD with training wheels.” At least now there was only one teacher to fear instead of a whole committee of sugar-glue-hating tyrants.

Enter: Mrs. Johnson. A woman who looked less like a kindergarten teacher and more like someone who might compete in a sumo wrestling contest. She had short dark and wore dresses that appeared to be hard made. Similar to curtains. She was square-shouldered, and perpetually exasperated by the mere existence of small children, Mrs. Johnson gave off “retired gym coach forced back into service” vibes. It was the late 1970s, when kindergarten was basically a glorified babysitting service with finger paint and a pledge of allegiance. We only stayed for half a day, which was a mercy for both the children and let’s be honest, probably for Mrs. Johnson too.

Most of my memories include playing in a tiny indoor sandbox or a suspicious bean-filled box (don’t ask, I don’t know why we had a bean box, but it was a crowd favorite). I remember reciting the Pledge of Allegiance each morning with full emotional commitment. I was and still am a true patriot. It felt empowering. Like, “Yes, I may be a shy, telepathically overstimulated child with repressed trauma, but I can pledge allegiance with the best of them.”

I wasn’t exactly verbal back then. I felt stuck inside my little body, like I’d been born an 80-year-old empath who was just renting a five-year-old shell. I was quiet. I was shy. And every time I did try to use my voice, Mrs. Johnson shut me down faster than a malfunctioning Speak & Spell.

Then there was Rachel. Oh, sweet Rachel. A fellow classmate who, I’m 99% sure, dressed herself with zero adult supervision. She came to school multiple times wearing white tights… with her underwear on the outside. Like a pint-sized, slightly confused superhero. And while I might’ve been a quiet child, I knew that panties go under your tights. I might’ve been emotionally fragile, but at least I understood the foundational order of undergarments. That’s called street smarts.

One vivid memory that’s permanently etched into the archives of my childhood shame: I was sick one day. You know the kind, runny nose, crusty dried boogers that felt like shards of glass in my nasal cavity. So naturally, I did what any five-year-old would do. I went in after it. No tissue. Just me, my tiny finger, and a dream of nasal relief.

And then…it happened.

Mrs. Johnson snapped. She grabbed my hand like I’d just committed kindergarten blasphemy and barked, “DON’T DO THAT!” No context. No redirection. No “We use tissues, sweetheart” or “Let’s wash our hands.” Just raw, unfiltered booger-shaming. I was stunned. My nose still hurt. My dignity was in shambles.

It was clear Mrs. Johnson did not like me. Maybe it was my booger removal methods. Maybe it was my refusal to embrace the bean box with the proper level of enthusiasm. Who knows? But by the end of the year, she made it known: I was not recommended for regular first grade.

And so, at five years old, I had already been deemed unfit for the mainstream education system—probably by the same woman who thought beans in a box constituted a math curriculum.

Joke’s on her though. I may have been a quiet booger-picker with a yellow handprint and a heightened sense of energy shifts, but I was never wrong about the order of tights and underwear. Stayed tuned for first grade where I tackle the physical and spiritual aspects of Jerome.