Travellers Stream

My biggest challenge is learning how to live with my emotions without letting them consume me.

I am deeply emotional. I don’t get mildly sad or slightly moved—I feel everything at full volume. And when it becomes too much, I cry. Crying seems to be my only language. I don’t know how to convert my feelings into anger, detachment, or silence. They simply spill out as tears.

One evening, it was raining heavily. A street dog near my house tried to take shelter at my opposite neighbour’s doorstep. They chased him away. He stood there for a moment—confused, wet, unwanted—before walking off into the rain to find another place to hide. That scene stayed with me long after the rain stopped. I cried that night, not just for the dog, but for everything he represented: helplessness, rejection, and the quiet cruelty that often goes unnoticed.

I feel the same heaviness when I see small children at traffic signals—selling balloons, pens, flowers—standing between speeding vehicles instead of being in school or at play. I cannot look at them without feeling a knot in my chest. Their tired faces, their forced smiles, their tiny hands holding out hope—it breaks something inside me. The world feels unbearably cruel in those moments, and I feel helpless knowing how little I can do to change it.

This is my struggle—to feel so much that even the pain of a stranger, an animal, or a fleeting moment becomes my own. I carry stories that aren’t mine. I grieve for things I cannot fix. My heart refuses to build walls, even when it probably should.

But perhaps this is also my strength. In a world that is learning to look away, I still stop and feel. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

My challenge is not to become less emotional—but to learn how to protect my heart while keeping it open.