Someone called me emotionally intelligent the other day. I nodded. Said thank you. Moved on. But it stuck with me.
Not because I don’t understand what the term means. I do. It’s the ability to recognize and manage your emotions. To handle relationships with care. To read the room. To feel what others feel and respond accordingly.
Fine. Got it.
But what does it actually mean to me?
Because the truth is, most days I’m a mess. Anxiety. Depression. Overthinking. Self-doubt. Some days I can barely get out of my own head long enough to hold a meaningful conversation, let alone read someone else’s emotional state with any clarity.
So what is it about me that comes off as emotionally intelligent?
Is it because I can write about pain and not flinch? Because I have feelings and I’m not afraid to tap into them?
Maybe. But I’m not like that all the time. Sometimes, I shut down. Sometimes, I spiral. Sometimes, I get real quiet because the weight is too much, and I don’t want to unload it on anyone else.
And yet, people call that strength. They see clarity in the middle of chaos and call it wisdom. But let me be honest. That clarity? It’s not natural. It’s earned. And it’s expensive.
It comes from suffering. From sitting in dark places and choosing to stay there long enough to understand why they exist. From feeling everything so deeply that you either learn to make sense of it or you drown in it.
I don’t feel emotionally intelligent when I’m lying awake at 3 a.m. trying to calm my heartbeat with my breath. Or when I find myself zoning out in the middle of dinner with friends because my mind is racing with problems I cannot solve. Or when my daughters ask me what’s wrong, and I have no answer I want them to carry.
But maybe that is the point.
Maybe emotional intelligence is not the absence of emotional pain. Maybe it is the willingness to sit with it. To not run from it. To let it change you into someone who can see it in others before they say a word.
Maybe it is not about being in control. Maybe it is about being open.
Open to discomfort. Open to truth. Open to growth that comes at a cost.
Maybe emotional intelligence is just the ability to carry pain. Yours and theirs. Without turning away. To hold space when words fail. To stay present when most people would rather disappear.
And if that’s true, then yeah. Maybe I’ve got a little of it. But I didn’t read it in a book. I didn’t take a course. I bled for it.
And I still do.
