I never considered myself hypersensitive growing up, and no one around me pointed it out either. Yet I always felt different—as if my thoughts and emotions were tuned to a frequency others couldn’t quite hear. I struggled to blend in with the everyday community. My outlook on life didn’t align with theirs. I often sensed that people were missing essentials, though they didn’t seem to realize it. Take time, for instance. I valued it profoundly, while others appeared to waste it without a second thought. That baffled me.

As the years passed, my awareness of these incongruities became sharper—often, simply observing the community err began to hurt. It impacted my trust in others. Coincidentally, at the same time, trauma and injustice became recurring themes in my social life. My pursuit of perfection, once a source of personal refuge, turned into a heavy burden when combined with trauma and loss. Eventually, I began to see my hypersensitivity not as a gift but as a vulnerability—a magnifying glass that made every wound, every imperfection, feel larger and harder to bear.

The trauma I experienced over time affected me more deeply than it might someone with average sensitivity. Still, my research doesn’t aim to dwell on trauma in general. Instead, it focuses on a particular thread woven through my life: my evolving attitude toward death and dying. My journey of “death adjustment,” as outlined in the Death and Adjustment Hypotheses, has always been at the heart of my work.

From early childhood, hypersensitivity shaped how I saw the world. The slightest possibility of a negative consequence would send me into spirals of anticipatory anxiety—and my face gave everything away. I was an open book. Even minor discomforts in my environment triggered inner reactions, often leading me to avoid situations altogether. Funerals, for example, were not just sad events for me—they were unbearable reminders of mortality. I wasn’t ready to confront that reality, and my avoidance often drew criticism. “You need help,” people would say, as if it were that simple.

My earliest memories are marked by a fear of losing my parents. At just three years old, I had vivid dreams of abandonment—being left alone in the dark under a bed, my voice too faint to reach them. These fears lingered, subtly mirrored in my waking life. I was raised in a culture where children were often treated as possessions, not individuals. As a hypersensitive child, this never sat well with me. Although my parents were far more reasonable than many around us, their protective instincts still fed my anxiety.

By age six, my sensitivity had fully taken root. Watching TV dramas where children lost their parents or witnessed family conflict left me heartbroken. It wasn’t just empathy—it was a visceral, paralyzing fear of loss. I began to dread the thought of outliving my parents. I didn’t know how to cope. Often, I would cry alone, usually in the bathroom, hiding my tears. I felt ashamed of what others called “weakness,” even though I knew death was a part of life and when clearly reminded, everyone felt uncomfortable as I did. But none remembered death as frequently and practically as I did; that was the difference. My mind understood the laws of nature, but my heart resisted them with all its strength. That internal conflict marked the beginning of my long journey toward death adjustment.

Some childhood memories still stand out with striking clarity. I had seizures during high fevers, though I don’t remember the seizures themselves. What I do remember is lying in my mother’s lap afterward, the comfort of her touch, and the cool water she gently poured over my head from an aluminum mug. That moment was one of the few times I felt completely safe. To this day, the sound of gently pouring water calms me—no matter how anxious or distressed I feel.

Another memory is of watching my older brother play sports with his friends. At three or four, I was too young to join them, and he often avoided bringing me along. It hurt, but I understood, and I didn’t complain. I would sit by the window, watching the children run and laugh in the playground outside. My eyes followed them longingly, but I never let my sadness interfere with their joy. Even then, my sensitivity extended beyond myself—I couldn’t bear the thought of burdening others with my feelings.

As I grew older, this hypersensitivity continued to shape my experience of the world. It amplified my fears, deepened my sense of fragility, and made me profoundly aware of the impermanence of everything I loved. That awareness forms the thread connecting my early childhood fears, my aversion to funerals, and my gradual journey toward accepting death—not just as an inevitable end but as an essential part of life.