Jennifer Silverman. Submitted
When I first bid adieu to My Old Kentucky Home and began my collegiate journey in the Big Apple, a state of shellshock was practically a daily albatross. There was so much for which to adjust.
For one, New Yorkers walk really fast, so a normal pace on a sidewalk is a potential death sentence. One could easily get crushed by a stampede of pedestrians. Then, there was the bewildering exercise of navigating the subway in the days before smart phones. One wrong turn and I could end up in Brooklyn instead of Manhattan – and I did.
Residing in New York also required making peace with constant commotion. Even in the wee hours of the morning, an urban soundtrack of taxi horns played on a loop. My apartment was 31 stories up, yet the sounds of the city were loud enough still, to wake the dead. This explains my tendency to rise and (not) shine a la a grumpy zombie, and ergo, the start of my Starbucks addiction.
For me, the worst of the worst in New York life was in fact the dreaded subway – a germophobe’s nightmare. I was the only coed I knew who would gladly walk 40 blocks rather than “take the train.” Even more than the ick factor, the subway’s atmosphere was my most overwhelming hurdle. Whether waiting or riding, I often felt smothered, as though I couldn’t breathe.
I came close to fainting on several occasions, but the terror of making contact with the cooties that were surely swarming about on the subway floor kept me upright. Like many highly sensitive individuals, my heightened awareness of stimuli exacerbated my inability to regulate my constitution on the subway. I essentially operated like a sponge – soaking up the energy emanating from the passengers pressed against me in ultra-close quarters. I unknowingly inhaled their sadness, frustration and anger, despite breathing at an absolute minimum.
Whether we intend to or not, we are all constantly sending out silent signals and vibrations. Those of us who are hyper-perceptive often unknowingly feel what others are feeling – usually to our own detriment. At that time, I didn’t have the language to articulate that I was drowning in the countenance of the hundreds of New Yorkers I managed to share daily space with. I could only describe my subsequent perpetual state of exhaustion.
So, I did what I’ve always done when I encounter an existential problem. I locate a self-help book, pronto. My quirky choice of enlightenment was courtesy of my favorite author, world-renowned psychic Sylvia Browne. Browne wrote about a process known as dimming one’s light. Although the idiom has a distinctive meaning in 2024, back then it was a method of Browne’s akin to adjusting the frequency on a radio. I realized I could learn to turn down the volume on my sensitivity, shifting my vibration and buffering the stimuli.
After many months of practice, Browne’s methods enabled me to adjust to the chaos. I developed a muscle to shield myself from the pervasive energy of others. Learning to realign my own energy inspired some important life lessons. It was the first time I realized that we all emote vibrations, and that those vibes influence others. Plus, I grew to understand that we possess the power to control the energy we transmit.
Although dimming my light enabled me to become a functioning, sometimes subway-going, New Yorker for the majority of my adult life, I’ve yet to recapture the level of sensitivity I previously so effortlessly employed. Alas, I know now what I didn’t know then. As we evolve, so do our former gripes about our prior selves. We see that struggles from our past can foster strength in the present. Eventually, life experience compels us to reframe our innate abilities from bygone resentments to invaluable, authentic attributes – even on the subway.
Jennifer Silverman has served as a celebrity wardrobe stylist for hundreds of TV personalities and professional athletes. A few of her favorite projects include the Olympic Games and the Oscars. Silverman and her Westie, Petunia, relocated from Manhattan to Amelia Island in 2019. Additional quirky commentary penned by Silverman is available by visiting www.CuriousColumnist.com. Email her at Jennifer@CuriousColumnist.com.