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Official website for author Tammy Green

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The Problem With Compassionate Empaths

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The term “empath” may be familiar to you in reference to the Myers-Briggs scale, indicating someone who is intuitive or feels things. However, if you’re an empath, it’s likely that you already know it.

I was an empath even as a small child but didn’t know it for many years because I wasn’t conscious of the term. It took me much longer than usual to realize that other people felt differently from how I felt, and that not everyone could understand my internal experience (or even wanted to). Eventually, however, I did realize this, and have spent the past decade trying to understand not only my own experiences, but empaths as a whole. Now, as an empath with several years of experience, I’m aware that there are advantages to being empathic. However, there are also pitfalls to empathy that can make life difficult for those who have this psychological trait. So, what are the cons of having heightened emotional awareness?

1) Overwhelming emotional experiences

One of the biggest challenges for empaths is learning how to handle the intensity of their own emotional experiences. This is due to a phenomenon called emotional contagion. Emotional contagion is defined as “the tendency to automatically mimic and synchronize facial expressions, vocalizations, postures, and movements with those of another person”. In other words, empaths are likely to involuntarily take on the emotions of those around them. Empaths are able to accurately sense and distinguish between other people’s feelings, but it is difficult for them to prevent themselves from becoming overwhelmed by strong emotional experiences that are out of their control.

2) Lack of boundaries

An empath has a hard time differentiating between their own emotions and the emotions of others. This can lead to intense personal relationships, where they feel like everything is shared, but it can also cause them to neglect themselves because they think other people are more important than them.

3) Sensitivity to stimuli

Being an empath means that you are sensitive to stimuli of all sorts. They can be sensitive to light, sound, taste, or smell. Also, they may have a difficult time going out in public because of loud noises, unpleasant smells, and crowds of people.

4) Physical symptoms

Being an empath makes it hard for you to distinguish between your own emotions and those of other people, which leads to physical symptoms of diseases or other ailments. This can cause them to think they are sick even though they are perfectly healthy.

5) Mental overload

Being an empath means feeling everything that’s going on everywhere, which leads to mental overload and being overwhelmed by emotions. They have no way of selecting what to feel and the emotions can become too much and can cause them to shut down. Also, if the emotions and feelings of others are constantly coming into their area, it makes it very difficult for them to stay in a positive mindset. They may feel like they’re drowning in negativity and sadness, when there’s no reason for them to be sad. Mental overload and constant bombardment of emotions from those around them can also lead to emotional burnout and develop into severe anxiety for the empath. It’s not uncommon for empaths to also suffer from PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) as a result of all the emotional damage they’ve accumulated throughout their lives. This can also result in an imbalance of serotonin, the feel-good chemical that helps keep our moods balanced. Without it, stress levels rise and depression becomes more likely. The best thing empaths can do is protect themselves with meditation, visualization techniques, and other protective methodologies. They can also avoid letting others take advantage of them, practice self-care routines, and even use their abilities to help heal others.

In conclusion, compassionate empaths are sensitive to energy and emotions. They can easily become overwhelmed by the negative feelings of others, which is why it’s important for them to monitor their exposure levels. In this article we’ve explored what a compassionate empath is, how they may experience life differently from other people, and some ways compassionately empathic individuals can protect themselves from being over-exposed to negativity.

To learn more about the adventures of a real-life empath, grab a copy of my book HERE.

Photo by Jessica Delp on Unsplash

The Book Is Here!

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Living Without Skin: Everything I Never Knew About Fierce Vulnerability is finally here! Click on Buy the Book in the banner above to get your copy today, or find it anywhere books are sold!

Feeling vulnerable is frightening.
Being fiercely vulnerable is phenomenal.

Most of us spend a lifetime trying to avoid pain and insecurity while overlooking the power we inherently possess. What would you do differently with your life if you knew you were failsafe at birth?

If you’ve ever felt vulnerable, weak, or like a complete failure, you can transform those feelings into fierce superpowers.

Life can leave you feeling raw, naked, and skinless. Learning to live without skin can turn you into the superhero of your dreams!

Prepare for an extraordinary and sometimes humorous journey that begins with a child’s imagination and ends with an ordinary adult’s transformation on unexpected paths.

You’ll discover how embracing vulnerability can help you:
– Learn how to find and wear the skin you were created for.
– Uncover the core of your individual insecurities, and transform them into strength.
– Connect internally and externally to humanity-defining power in a personal and public environment.
– Heal from trauma so it isn’t passed to the next generation as culture.

Step out of your old skin. Be your own fierce hero.

A Little More Haphazard Blogging

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It seems as good a time as any to check back in here, especially since my last post was in November, 2020. I feel pretty confident that none of us were sad to see THAT year go. As we came through the beginning of 2021, it appears many of us were just trying to find stable ground again – emotionally, spiritually, and physically. I certainly was.

I have finished writing the book, Living Without Skin. I decided to shoot for the moon when asking for endorsements, and I sent requests to Brené Brown, Glennon Doyle, and Elizabeth Gilbert. I assume we’ll be “talk-on-the-phone” friends by next year anyway, so I wanted to get a jump on building our relationships. Of course, I didn’t get a response from most. However, Brené Brown’s team actually did respond – with a PERSONAL response vs just a canned “No”. So, clearly the first signed copy will go to Brené (who will likely never know how close she came to being famous by endorsing my book).

“Hmmmm…I’ve always wanted to write a book.” Are you thinking that? Do you have a great story? Dreaming of having a different career? Thinking that writing a book must be glamorous and an ideal job? Um, no. It’s a J-O-B! Writing, in and of itself, is a lesson in slicing open your heart and bleeding all over the paper. And, unless you’re famous and you have a publishing company doing all the legwork, putting that book together and actually publishing it is WORK! So, it’s been a labor of love, and definitely a check mark on the bucket list. I am unequivocally proud of it, and of my truth that I managed to tell.

Stay tuned for more information on ordering your copy starting August 1, 2021. We’re halfway through 2021 with many of us gratefully recovering from 2020. Let’s make the last half of this year amazing! Onward.

Rip

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The year of ripping, of goodbye, death, of the word “cruel” and being able to say “you are not who I thought you were”, the year of sickness, when the whole world stopped. The year I broke open, and my guts spilled out onto the paper, into the earth, when I learned that spirit is larger than body, and bodies are fragile. Everyone this year tells me ‘your words resonate with me’, and minds are twisted – the veil between good and evil is opened. The year that slammed me into humanity/humility, stillness, laughter, softness in the corners found underneath the shadows and the swords. Skinless and raw, with scabs that have somehow become scars, and scars that have become beautiful mosaic tattoos on my soul. The year of feeling someone else’s pain, sitting with it, holding a hand, wiping a brow, cupping a face while a hurricane boils inside me. The year of drowning in powerlessness and worry while flowers bloom, the ozone clears, the air is cleaner and fresher than ever before in my lifetime, sadness and joy weave and wind throughout soul and heart like serpents and doves. The year of evolution, revolution, mixed with flour and butter and honey-the best birthday cake ever made for the earth, and I learned through loss what love really means. The year I found my place, and I belong.

It’s Not Really Work

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She was born a caregiver. She’s so smart and can literally do a thousand things at once, and juggle every one down to the detail in her mind. She went to nursing school to learn a trade that would provide an income for her 4 kids and family, but nursing was really her destiny. She did it, and did it well during her whole career. And when she “retired”, she kept on nursing in a private setting until age 86. Seriously, age 86. Who does that? Probably because she loved what she did, it was never really work.

She cared for her family with just as much devotion. At age 21, I was working my first “real” job after college, and the job had taken me to a small town about 2 hours from Chunky, MS, where I was raised. She still lived there. I was an assistant manager for a retail store 2 hours away, and worked at least 6 days per week. I rented a small house near work and I lived alone. Of course, a small town where you don’t know anyone can be very isolating, and sometimes lonely. So, I worked a lot, and eventually, I got sick. Not seriously sick, but a cold or flu or something that a little chicken soup would eventually take care of. That was all the excuse she needed. She packed up her car and headed on down to take care of me. And she did. She nursed me, and chicken souped me, and we sat together in the evenings, each reading a book. After a couple days, I was feeling better enough to make it back to work. She just said, “Well, I’ll just finish out the week here if that’s alright with you, and I’ll go on up to Jackson when I leave.” If you haven’t noticed by now, Jackson was an integral part of our lives. Listen, I was 21 and foolish, but I wasn’t stupid. When the Mimaw shows up and waits on you hand and foot for a couple days, you don’t really want that to end too soon. “You can stay another week after if you want to,” I said. She just smiled.

She did stay an extra week, and we spent the evenings reading, and talking. Who even wants to spend that much time with a headstrong, know-it-all, 21 year old? Especially one who is sick? She did. I am her oldest grand. The one on which she lavished everything. The one who stole her heart. The one who taught her what being a grand was all about. She wants to spend that much time with me.

So caring for her now, when she needs it the most? Doing for her what she can’t do for herself? This is a breeze. Easiest thing in the world. I want to spend time with her. Because I love her, it’s not really work. ❤️

She’s Not Flying Yet

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This tiny little bird is going to gather a few more stories here with us before she flies. I’m not sure why that’s surprising. After all, she parented two small boys singly after their father was killed. She put herself through nursing school when women didn’t really take on careers like that. She married again and gave all four of her children a legacy. She taught her children and their children the value of hard work, perseverance, and not settling. She worked as a nurse until she was 86 years old. Yes, you read that right. Two weeks ago, she celebrated her 96th birthday. Saturday night, she suffered a stroke. It was big, and we were afraid that we were going to lose her. We forgot who she is. She is coming back by the minute, and after a bit more rehab, she’ll be back to being Myrtle Irby, RN – the RN stands for Right Now. (That’s a family joke as she’s known for her impatience.)

For her whole life, she’s cared for others, and I am the recipient of a large part of that care. It’s a privilege to be able to give a tiny portion of her gift back to her. As she used to read to me, I snuggled her and read to her. As I used to say to her, “Don’t leave me, Mimaw.”, she said to me, “I don’t want you to go.” As she used to drive to work crying after having to leave me, I drive home crying after having to leave her.

But I’ll be back for a few more adventures with my grandmother, the great. ❤️

Community

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It’s a word typically used to describe a characteristic of a group of living beings. It’s been used in many different, and quite varied, settings. “Homeless community”. “Church community”. It’s a way that people categorize themselves, identify themselves, and label themselves and others, good and bad. Some communities carry a negative connotation. Some make people appear more esteemed than what’s warranted in reality. A very simplified definition of the word “community” is a group of living things sharing the same environment. At the most simplified interpretation of that definition, it implies that every living being is in a community with another living being. We are all in. We all belong. Yet, we don’t. As humans, we instinctively try to find a pecking order where someone appears to exist at a higher tier than another, for whatever reason. A rich person feels superior to a poor person. Someone with a roof over their head is superior to a homeless person. Someone with a lighter skin color is considered by some to be superior to someone with a darker skin color.
Why? Why do we use the very thing, community, that brings us all together to separate and debase other living beings? I make up that we – all of us – are insecure about our own place in community. I submit that we have an inherent fear of not belonging, not being included, not being seen. I believe that many of us greatly curb and scale back our own individuality in order to fit into expectations and perceptions of a specific community. We are conditioned from birth to conform, fit in, modify behavior, believe so that we can belong. We teach our children to do this because it’s what we were taught. And the cycle continues.
“Be quiet.” “Use your inside voice.” “Don’t speak to me in that tone.” These are all things I personally heard during my childhood. However, it’s taken me 51 years to love the fact that my loudness walks into a room before I do. I was reminiscing with family a few days ago about the time when I was five years old on a routine Friday night sleepover at my grandfather’s home. I was already in bed, as was he, when I asked for a glass of water. Exasperated, he told me no, that it was time to go to sleep. I responded, “All I want are my rights.” Who could have known what a prophecy that would become? It’s my earliest memory of randomly pissing off family members with my words and actions. 46 years later, it’s evolved into an art form. I’ve managed to alienate a mother, a sister-in-law, a brother, innumerable aunts and uncles, and cousins by simply being loud, opinionated, and unapologetically living my truest, most authentic life. And that’s just my kinfolk. Just imagine how quickly I can piss off people who aren’t related to me.
That has most assuredly impacted my space in community. Some have thrown me away. Some have taken me in. Here’s what I’ve learned along the way about community.

  • I’ve always had a voice. I had to learn how to use it effectively, and become indifferent to how others expected me to use it.
  • I exist to pull others into community, even while I am discarded from it.
  • I don’t have to agree with others to love them, and I have the capacity to love them even while they are hurting me.
  • Family is not blood. They are relatives. Family is who stands beside you through the good, the bad, and everything in between. Pay attention to who those people are and appreciate them.
  • My pain always has a purpose.

I’ve paid close attention the last few years to the community around me. I’ve become selective about what I allow into my life. I exist in several communities today. I am part of a recovery community, activist community, female community, gay community, family community, animal parent community, empathy community, empty nester community, real estate community, medical community, writing community, and spiritual community. Not a single one of these communities defines who I am. I used to be part of a relative community, church community, soccer mom community, single parent community, student community, corporate community. Not one of those communities ever defined who I am. Most importantly, I’m hyper aware of the simplified community to which I belong.
Humans are such funny creatures. We need to belong. We need it like the very air we breathe. We seek it out in the oddest of places such as gangs, drugs, bars, recovery rooms, and other places when we are discarded from one where we thought we belonged. And we find it. Whether or not we survive it is a different story. We always find it.
I’m grateful today for community, a group of living things sharing the same environment. I’m even more grateful for those who gift it freely to others. I aspire to be someone who creates community. If you are non-residenced, non-Caucasian, non-Christian, non-affluent, non-gender identified, non-female, non-male, non-straight, non-gay, non-married, or any other thing that makes you feel like you are separate, you belong here. I encourage you to stop being “non”.
Find your voice.
Include everyone.
Love regardless.
Pay attention.
Use your pain.
Be who you are, and know that you are valued. You belong. You are my community, and you have a place here.

Hope

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A beautiful spring day when the sky is an endless, cerulean blue with big fluffy, marshmallow clouds.
A hug so warm it seeps into your spirit, sometimes a fire that burns your fingers.
The sunlight glinting on the lake throwing diamonds in your eyes with every ripple.
A murmuration of starlings flying in a glorious pattern, weaving heaven and earth into one being.
Coffee every morning, just the way you like it – two cups exactly.
The color blue – soft, kind, and soothing as a baby’s blanket.
A day in the woods, walking slowly among the trees, marveling at every vein and tributary in a leaf.

Iced tea, unsweetened, thirst quenching in the fiery summer sun.
Belonging, right where you are, just as you are.
A swim in crystal clear water on a night so warm it feels like a cozy hug with every stroke.
The ocean in darkness with a night sky bedazzled with stars shining like beacons calling you home.
The full moon over the water illuminating trails that lead to her glow.
The sound of waves gently rolling onto shore, rocking you like an angel’s lullaby.

Fall, when the sun is a giant orange ball on the horizon sinking into the lake.
A soft place to crash, and a cannon launching you back into the world.
Belly laughter from a baby, the kind that makes you laugh so hard you cry.
The brightest light, the kind you imagine Heaven uses as a welcome mat.
Laundry, and mail, and mowing the lawn – the thing that makes a life, daily.
The thing that makes it a life uncommon.

Winter, sharing a blanket together, watching the flames in the fireplace reflect in blue eyes.
A cloak when the world has peeled you raw, and you have no skin.
Quirky – cucumber green tea bath soap, toothpaste that stands up, and wiping dog paws every time.
A campfire, drawing everyone into the circle, encouraging connection, braiding hearts together.
A single tear, leaving a trail down a face, throat constricted, unable to speak.
Drinking chocolate, savory, dark, rich, something to be sipped.

Soul food.

Lessons In Training For A Marathon (Or Learning To Write As Art)

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“How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” We’ve all heard the cliché describing the undertaking of anything that seems overwhelming. So it is with signing up for a writing course when you’ve never written anything for publication. Except it isn’t. Does fear of vulnerability, exposure, or failure exist at the prospect of eating an elephant?

Much like deciding to begin writing for actual readers, I set a goal four years ago to run a half marathon. I began training for it a full year in advance. I couldn’t run a complete mile without stopping when I began training. I hired a coach to help me make a plan, and reach my goal. My plan began with running one mile by running for thirty seconds and walking for two minutes in intervals until I reached the set distance. I thought I would die. 

At around the same time in my life, I heard encouragement from friends who read short excerpts of things I randomly posted on Facebook about how I should write for a career. I decided to set a goal of learning how to do so and exploring ways to make it financially viable as a retirement career. I didn’t really DO anything to make a plan for reaching that goal. But I thought a lot about it. 

Lesson learned: Setting goals for things that seem impossible create hope for dreams that could come true. It’s never too late to do it.

Three months into training for my half marathon, I had developed a routine for my weekly training miles. I would awaken at 4:30 a.m. on the days marked for running, and I would quickly dress and head out the door to get an hour logged. I had progressed to three mile sessions with running intervals of one minute runs and 1:30 minute walks. I joined a couple of running groups locally, and I signed up for local races. During the races, I learned that my average pace of 14 minutes per mile was dismally slow compared to others in my group. I felt discouraged and worked hard to improve. Most days sucked and it wasn’t easy.

My writing goal was still lying on the ground with no wings or plans to grow any.

Lesson learned: Making a commitment requires daily work. Following through is most important when the suck factor is overwhelming.

Six months into half marathon training, I learned that my consistency in following my routine was paying off. My pace had improved to 13 minutes per mile, and I discovered that I loved running in the rain. It felt exhilarating! My training plan began to include a long run on the weekend of varying distances of more than three miles that I was logging on a given day during the week. Most days sucked and it wasn’t easy. Occasionally I had a great run, and I was encouraged. But I was petrified of trying to run a longer distance than three miles. I will never forget the feeling that I had when I finished my first 10K! I was on top of the world, and I felt like I could do anything!

Oh, hello, writing dream. I’ll catch you later. I’ll pen a few poems here and some random thoughts there and call it a day.

Lesson learned: Hard work delivers a payoff. Naming a dream is not the same thing as working for a dream. 

The night before the half marathon, I was petrified. I’m not sure why. Maybe I thought I would die, or fail, and everyone would see that I’m a fraud. I’m not a real runner. I was still running intervals! That race was hard. Parts of it sucked. I felt discouraged. I questioned myself and my reasons for doing it. I finished my first half marathon in three hours and 15 minutes. I was most assuredly a real runner, and I had the heavy metal to prove it! I was invincible!

Writing? What writing? I’ll just wait for more inspiration.

Lesson learned: If I make a decision, I can make a plan. If I make a plan, I can be accountable. When I am accountable, the dream happens.

I set a goal to run a full marathon by the time I turned 50 years old. I signed up for the actual race almost a full year before the race date. I was petrified. I hired my coach again to help me make a plan and get there. I will be 51 years old one month before the race. I am training now. Most days suck, and my pace is actually slower than ever. Occasionally I have a great run, and I’m encouraged. I know what to do. 

I set a goal to begin writing for actual readers. I applied to Elephant Academy to learn techniques and make a plan. I know what to do. I have to devote time consistently to learning and practicing. I have to endure the suck to get to the great parts, and I am encouraged. I have to make a plan, and I have to be consistent.

Lesson learned: To reach any dream in life requires knowledge of elephant eating. Follow instructions. Be consistent. Practice. Endure the suck. Appreciate the great. One bite at a time.

How big is your elephant?

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