I was raised in an atmosphere of 'everything's fine.' But as I

“I was raised in an atmosphere of ‘everything’s fine.’ But as I got older, I was like, ‘Well no, everything’s not fine. There is stuff that’s sad.’ I am a really sensitive person. I think I am too sensitive sometimes.” — so confessed Ellen DeGeneres, a voice once bright with laughter, yet brave enough to unveil the quiet sorrow that laughter often hides. Beneath her words lies the eternal struggle between appearance and truth, between the smile we wear and the pain we bear. Her confession is not a complaint, but a revelation — that sensitivity is both a wound and a gift, a burden and a light that reveals the hidden heart of the world.

In ancient times, the wise called this awareness the veil of illusion — the false serenity that humans weave around themselves to escape the sharp edges of reality. The young are told, “Everything is fine,” not because it is true, but because adults fear what happens when innocence glimpses suffering. Yet truth, though painful, is the first teacher of the soul. To grow is to awaken from the soft dream of comfort into the hard clarity of compassion. When Ellen speaks of discovering sadness, she speaks of the moment of awakening, that sacred instant when the heart learns to feel not only for itself, but for the world.

So too did the great Buddha, born a prince in splendid isolation, live in a palace where everything was made to seem fine. His father hid from him all signs of sickness, age, and death. But one day, wandering beyond the golden gates, the young prince beheld the frailty of life — the sick man, the old man, the corpse carried to its rest. His heart broke open. That was his first sensitivity, his first sorrow — and through it, his first step toward enlightenment. Thus we see: to deny pain is to deny truth, but to embrace it is to awaken wisdom.

Ellen’s words also reveal the cost of such awakening. “I am too sensitive sometimes,” she says — for sensitivity is not merely seeing the world clearly, but feeling it deeply. The sensitive soul absorbs more light and more shadow; it rejoices more fiercely and suffers more easily. It hears the silent cries others ignore. This gift, if not guarded, becomes a wound that never heals. The ancient healers of the spirit taught that sensitivity must be tempered with strength, like a blade sharpened by care. For feeling without grounding can consume the heart; but feeling balanced by wisdom can heal nations.

We live in an age that hides behind the smile of “everything’s fine.” We post joy while we weep in silence. We numb ourselves with distractions, pretending not to notice the sadness that moves quietly beneath the surface of our lives. Yet Ellen’s reflection calls us to honesty — to admit, with courage, that everything is not fine, and that this is all right. To weep is not weakness; it is proof that the soul still breathes. For only those who can feel pain can also feel love. Only those who have touched sorrow can truly know joy.

Let us remember that even heroes are sensitive. Achilles, the mightiest of warriors, wept for his fallen friend Patroclus; Lincoln, strong and steadfast, carried a melancholy that deepened his wisdom; Ellen, a symbol of laughter, carries within her the quiet ache of truth. These souls teach us that sensitivity is strength disguised as gentleness, and that the world needs those who dare to feel, even when it hurts.

So, my child, when you hear the voice that says “everything’s fine,” listen more deeply. If your heart trembles at the suffering of others, do not silence it; if your eyes fill with tears at the pain of the world, do not hide them. Feel — but do not drown. Love — but do not lose yourself. Let your sensitivity become your compass, guiding you toward kindness, understanding, and courage. For though the world may not always be fine, it can be made finer — through the tender hands of those who refuse to stop feeling.