I’ve always been someone who feels deeply before I can think clearly.
It’s like my emotions have a direct line to my heart, bypassing my brain entirely at times.
There’s a moment I’ve come to recognize—a red flag, I call it—when something someone says or does hits me like a wave. My body reacts before my mind can catch up: a flush of heat courses through me, my heart races, and sometimes, I can barely get my words out without choking on them. It’s intense, overwhelming, and, honestly, a little scary.
These moments are my triggers, and they come on fast—faster than I can process. They’re not just emotional; they’re physical, too. I feel hot, my pulse quickens, and it’s like my whole system is sounding an alarm: Warning! This is too much! It’s challenging to step back, analyze what’s happening, or even respond coherently when I’m caught in that storm. Unlike the physical signs, the emotional triggers don’t always align perfectly with the bodily ones, which makes them even harder to predict or manage.
As a feeler, this is my reality: I experience emotions first, and only then can I begin to think. It’s not a choice; it’s just how I’m wired. In those moments, I need time to process, to let the feelings settle so I can make sense of them. But I’ve noticed how this can put me at odds with thinkers—those who seem to process the world through logic first, emotions second. To them, my reactions might seem soft, weak, or even useless. I’ve seen the satisfaction in their eyes when they “win” an argument, their competitive spirit shining through as they believe they’ve proved their point. But it’s not about understanding or learning for them in those moments—it’s about being right.
Thinkers, I’ve learned, operate differently. They’re clear-headed, opinionated, and often task-focused. They need to talk through their thoughts before they can even begin to tap into their emotions. If they’re not heard, they can’t feel. It’s like their emotions are locked behind a wall of logic, only accessible once they’ve fully expressed their thoughts. But once they are heard, something shifts—they open up, and their perspectives might even change.
For me, as a feeler, it’s the opposite. I need to express my emotions without fear of guilt, shame, or attack. I need to feel safe to let those emotions run their course before I can think clearly. The safer I feel, the sharper my thoughts become. It’s not weakness—it’s just my process. I’m warm-hearted and relationship-focused, and I thrive when I’m in an environment that honors that.
What I’ve come to realize, through time and healing, is that these triggers don’t stay as intense forever. As I’ve worked through my journey of growth, I’ve noticed that the scale and intensity of those triggers have started to subside. They don’t hit as hard or last as long as they once did. A big part of this has been learning to throw off the shame that used to weigh me down. (Thank you Brene’ Brown for your research on shame and vulnerability!) I used to feel embarrassed or weak for reacting so strongly, but I’ve come to see my triggers differently—they’re not just obstacles; they’re gifts. They point me toward the deeper messages, lies, fears, and beliefs buried beneath the surface. By paying attention to them, I’ve been able to uncover truths about myself, often tied to childhood adversity, that have shaped how I respond to the world.
Understanding that I’m wired as a feeler first has been a game-changer. It’s helped me process my emotions without believing the accusations that I’m “overly emotional” or somehow deficient. Similarly, I’ve learned that thinkers aren’t “cold-hearted” just because they process differently. Knowing whether someone is a feeler or a thinker helps us grow without the burden of labels that make us feel less than. It’s about embracing how we’re built and giving ourselves—and each other—permission to process in our own way.
Learning to recognize these red flags and triggers has been a journey, one that’s taught me to see them as opportunities for growth rather than sources of shame. I’m still figuring out how to navigate them, how to give myself the space to feel without judgment, and how to communicate with thinkers who might not understand my process. But I’m starting to see that both ways—feeling first or thinking first—have their strengths. It’s not about one being better than the other; it’s about understanding how we’re built and creating space for each other to be who we are.
Can You Relate?
Can you relate to experiencing unexpected triggers and not understanding why? Are you a “Feeler” or a “Thinker”? Please share your thoughts and story below. I know it will help someone who needs to hear that they aren’t alone in being “human”.