“You’re too sensitive” was a common refrain I heard growing up. It came from my parents, my teachers, and even my peers. The consensus was clear: Abby needed to toughen up. I clearly was the problem. No one else seemed as upset. So, for years, I tried to let things “roll” off my back, not too feel so hard. I tried really hard. But it wasn’t until I was an adult that I understood how truly different I am. I’m not just “sensitive”—it goes far beyond that, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. And believe me, there are times when I really want to.
I first realized that I was more than just “sensitive” while living in the pediatric oncology wing. It was the first time I had been surrounded by such strong energy. I couldn’t ignore it. Even just walking by the door of another child’s room, I could feel their pain. It hit me like a wave—all of their energy. I could tell who was on chemo and who wasn’t, without knowing anything about the kids. I could feel the chemo radiating in their bodies. And at night, when the hospital got quiet, I could feel the swirls of anguish and grief from all the different rooms wash over me. Some nights, it paralyzed me. The pain was just too much, and if Jacob hadn’t been there needing my attention… who knows what I would have done to make it stop.
However, it wasn’t until after I left the hospital that I had the time and space to explore this undeniable experience. I wanted to understand what was happening inside me. Basically, what is WRONG with me? But I quickly learned that I have a “gift,” and I was not the only one.
If you meet me in person, you may feel my gift. People always comment on how they feel energized just by being in my presence. People (and recently injured animals) are inexplicably drawn to me. Strangers regularly approach me just to chat. And if you’re a kid… well, you have no choice but to love me, lol. Children’s energy has always come easiest. Their energy has fewer guards; it just swirls around them, and they let you in without a second thought. And knowing another’s energy has huge advantages. I know exactly how to engage. I know exactly what to say. I can meet them at their energetic level. This ability allows me to connect in ways others can't. I can even get hundreds of children to line up in a row! I do think it is this gift that has brought me such success in my career in education.
After Jacob went into remission, I decided to dive deeper into understanding what was happening inside me. I’ve met with scientists, energy healers, Kabbalists, and more. I’ve had the honor of sitting in physics labs where they decode the frequency of each emotion, allowing me to see the energy firsthand. I fell in love with the field of cymatics, where energy can be visualized, but it wasn’t until recently that I learned to developed my gift. With the help of mentors and teachers, I can now tap into the universal energy field. This is a very new skill for me—I’m only a few months into it, and I’m still learning. However, using the universal energy field, I can now tap into energies miles away.
I was told by my teachers to practice and to pick a subject to send energy to. I did not have to think for a second who that person would be, Rachel Goldberg Polin, mother of Israeli hostage, Hersh Goldberg. Every day for the past four months, I’ve spent 10 minutes sending her energy of strength and love. I could feel when I connected with her; her energy was so distinct because I had felt that mixture before. It felt just like when they told me Jacob might not survive. It’s a limbo energy—frenetic and in a constant state of motion, with deep love and grief both equally present. It’s a strange mix, for sure, but I recognized it. It matched perfectly with energies I’ve felt before, making my connection easy. I was even able to tap into Rachel while doing mundane tasks like driving in the car. I didn’t need quiet or focus; she was that clear.
Since Hersh’s murder, she has been clearer than ever. I’ve been flooded with Rachel’s energy. She’s everywhere. I can be walking in the kitchen and be brought to my knees by her grief. I feel her everywhere in my body. She has made me physically ill—I’ll randomly vomit due to a surge of energy. She has made me produce sounds I didn’t even know I could make as her grief boils in my throat.
I am energetically grieving the loss of a son, even as I sit here fully conscious, writing this in my own son’s bedroom, watching him sleep peacefully, knowing that my other son is also peacefully sleeping only a few meters away. But my body tells me otherwise. My body says my son has died. The pain is truly unbearable. I can’t function. I’ve reached out to my teachers, and they all seem pleased with this reaction—that I’ve advanced in my ability to tap into the field—but at the moment, I would do anything to make it stop.
But then I think of Rachel. She can’t make it stop.
So, Rachel, I’m here. I’m here with you still. I feel you, and I cry with you. I am honoring Rachel’s grief as I honor my own. I am allowing myself to feel the full weight of this pain because I know that in doing so, I am helping her, taking some of the burden. This unbearable connection to others' suffering is the cost of my gift, but it is also its power. I will continue to send strength to Rachel and to all those who suffer. Because that’s what my gift allows me to do. It’s how I connect, how I survive, and how, in some small way, I contribute to the healing of this world.
And today, that means sobbing in bed.
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