The Soft Ones Don’t Survive Easily (disliking humanity and being empath at the same time?) 🌻

Hello, this is Seri 🌸

In this post, I’ll open up about something I don’t often talk about ; my struggles with misanthropy blending with empathy, and social anxiety.

It’s a delicate balance, and my thoughts on humanity are often complicated. Yet, in this complexity, I’ve found both my biggest vulnerabilities and strengths.

Let me share my journey of how these parts of me coexist and shape the way I see the world and the people in it.

There’s a kind of misanthropy people don’t always understand one born not from cruelty or arrogance, but from pain and perception.

Mine doesn’t come from detachment.

It comes from feeling too much.

Yes, I’m angry.

Truly, deeply angry.

Angry at what humanity has done. At the violence, the cruelty, the hypocrisy. At the way, one betray one another, and call it normal.

At the way, the world keeps turning while people keep hurting.

But here’s the thing most people wouldn’t expect about me, because of how soft I appear, how delicate my world might seem from the outside.

I am just as empathic as I am angry.

My empathy is what keeps me from turning into something darker.

So many people become monsters from pain like this, and we can understand why. But something inside me won’t let go of feeling, of caring, of noticing the little things that still carry beauty.

And maybe that’s also why I love babies and toddlers so much.

They’re not untouched by emotion in fact, they feel things in such raw, overwhelming ways. But there’s a truth in their emotions. No masks. Just honesty, even when it’s loud or chaotic.

I feel safe around them, not because they’re always kind, but because they’re still becoming.

They haven’t yet been sculpted by the world into something hardened or hidden.

I don’t believe humans are born good. But I do believe they’re born different from the way we see them as adults. They become. Through their experiences, through the people around them, through how they are seen or unseen.

That’s why I love being around them.

To teach, to guide, to water their seeds of gentleness before the world tries to pull them out.

It’s never too late to help a child become benevolent. But with adults… too often, the roots are already too deep. They're unchangeable. 

When I say I’m distant from humanity, I don’t mean all of it.

There’s still a part of me that believes. That nurtures. That stays soft.

Especially for the little ones and the people similar to me. 

I researched it, hoping for clarity.

Are people mostly bad? Or do we just notice the worst in humanity because it's the loudest?

The answer never felt clear enough.

And my social anxiety adds another layer.

Oh, I didn't tell you? Yes, I do have social anxiety. 

Is it related to misanthrope? 

Probably. 

Social anxiety is often about how others perceive you, a deep fear of judgment, rejection, being embarrassed or harmed. It’s usually self-focused, even though it’s caused by external interactions.

Misanthropy, on the other hand, is more about how you perceive others. It’s a loss of faith in humanity, a disappointment, sometimes even disgust or emotional withdrawal. It’s other-focused.

But they can blend and feed each other.

If you have social anxiety and you get hurt over and over people being unkind, dismissive, or cruel you may begin to develop misanthropic thoughts: “Maybe people just aren’t safe.”

Likewise, if you start off mistrusting people or seeing the worst in them, you might develop social anxiety because being around them feels threatening or draining.

I don’t compete with people because of that.

That’s not humility or virtue, it’s fear.

I prefer to lose. I prefer to go unnoticed. To be a soft presence in the background, because visibility feels dangerous.

I’ve seen what jealousy can do. I’ve felt the weight of the bad eye that invisible tension when someone’s gaze doesn’t feel kind. I’ve witnessed how aggressiveness can rise from admiration turning sour. I’ve learned to associate success with risk.

And so, I shrink myself. Not because I don’t want to shine… but because when I do, I worry about who might be watching. What they might feel. What it might awaken in them.

Praise in front of others? It doesn’t feel like warmth, it feels like exposure. Like being put on a fragile pedestal, one that others might want to knock down.

That’s how my anxiety works. It doesn’t whisper "You’re not good enough."

It whispers, "Even if you are, it’s safer to hide it.”

I’ve come to realize that it’s not just insecurity. It’s survival.

Because when the world has taught you that attention is dangerous, you learn to find comfort in invisibility.

But deep down, there’s still a child in me that wants to be seen, but only by kind eyes.

Even though my social anxiety isn’t tied to gender in its root, it's true that I’m more afraid of men.

And it’s not just about individual people. It’s the weight of patterns.

I lost many good people especially men because their kindness felt like a trick. I couldn’t trust what wasn’t visible. How can I believe in someone when I don’t know their thoughts, their secrets, what they do when they’re unseen? I’ve been wrong before, and it carved caution into my bones.

There’s a specific tension I carry when I’m in the presence of men, especially strangers. 

I distanced myself even when their hearts were kind, because something inside me screamed “stay alert.”

And that’s hard to live with.

It hurts to reject someone’s sincerity, but when your mind is wired for protection, trust doesn’t come easily.

Sometimes, even kindness from men makes me anxious, not because I don’t want kindness, but because I question the intention behind it.

It’s exhausting to always be scanning for hidden motives.

I know not all men are harmful. I'm extremely close to my dad and I have 3 brothers. 

But my body reacts faster than reason to the unknown and after all, we could say the same about misanthropie. Not all humans are bad? 

I’ve learned to count on myself, almost entirely.

Not out of pride, but because vulnerability often feels unsafe.

I hesitate to talk about my struggles, not because I don’t need help, but because I’m afraid of the way people might interpret my pain.

As a woman, especially, there’s always that shadow “she’s playing the victim, she lies, she's the product of this generation (creating new traumas).”

And that accusation, even unspoken, is enough to silence me.

This fear runs so deep that I’ve avoided therapy.

Not because I don’t believe in it… but because therapists are still human.

Diploma or not, they carry their own emotions, biases, and beliefs.

Some of them, I should have trusted were not neutral. They took sides. They made judgments. And that hurt more than healing ever could.

Since then, I’ve turned to what’s safe: animals 🦌, music 🎶 , and nature 🏞️ .

They don’t judge. They don’t ask why.

They just hold space.

A cat curled against my legs, a melody in my ears, the hush of trees around me, these are my therapists.

And yet, I know that sometimes, this world forces me to seek care from humans again, healthcare, assessments, procedures.

I do what I must. But I never go unguarded.

My trauma has made me gentle, but it has also made me careful.

And while I may seem soft, there’s a fortress behind the softness, a quiet decision that not everyone gets to enter.

I find myself drifting away from human-centered things since the past few years. I can’t watch be a fan or not the same, I’m too afraid of becoming attached, only to discover the actor or the singer is someone I can’t respect. It happens too often. 

So I do things that don’t revolve around people.

I take comfort in stillness again in nature, in solitude sometimes.

But I keep one connection with humans alive: music.

Music is the only part of humanity I still love without hesitation. It speaks without masks. It’s raw and beautiful. It doesn't scare me.

This pain, this mistrust, it didn’t just isolate me.

It reshaped the way I open my heart to people.

Over time, I stopped trying to be open-minded for the sake of it.

Because I realized, there are beliefs I simply cannot welcome into my life.

Not when those beliefs threaten my safety, my identity, or the dignity of the people I care about.

Some people say “we can agree to disagree.”

But how do you agree to disagree with misogyny?

With people who minimize violence, excuse cruelty, or treat others like they're beneath them?

I’ve heard men I once trusted share opinions that crushed something inside me.

I’ve seen "friends" reveal political views that stood in direct opposition to my own survival, against my community, my values, my being.

And no matter how gentle I try to be, some boundaries are non-negotiable.

So yes, I’ve become more selective.

I only let people into my world if their core aligns with mine.

Not because I hate difference, but because I no longer have the strength to fight for my humanity in every conversation.

I want peace in my space.

If I want to live longer, I need peace. 

And peace comes from shared values, not identical experiences, but a shared commitment to kindness, to justice, to empathy.

I no longer feel guilty about protecting that peace.

I still have friends, yes. But the truth is, they are like me.

Finding people who share my values, who understand the way I navigate the world, isn’t easy.

I’ve learned that being soft doesn’t fit into most places.

People who are soft, who genuinely care, who empathize deeply, who want to change the world for the better are often met with mockery.

We’re told we’re too sensitive.

Too weak.

Too “idealistic.”

I’ve seen it on social media, in real life…

The people who stand up against cruelty, who dare to feel and react : they’re labeled “soft” in the worst way possible.

But soft doesn’t mean weak.

It means tender-hearted.

It means being responsive to the needs of others.

It means caring.

Yet, humans seem to prefer cruelty over kindness.

They side with those who hurt rather than those who try to heal.

It breaks me. 

Because these movements, these efforts to support human rights, animal rights, the fight for equality, they’re the ones under attack now.

Those who speak for justice are treated as the problem while those who perpetuate harm are left untouched.

Yes, I’m soft.

And maybe that’s the root of my misanthropy.

Watching a world where hate is rampant and kindness is scorned where the voices of compassion are drowned out by those who choose division over understanding, it breaks me.

I can’t unsee it.

And I don’t know how to fix it, except by finding my quiet corner with those who share my heart, protecting the softness that still has a chance to bloom.

I have so much anger, I can hardly contain it sometimes.  

It doesn’t show, at least not on the surface, because my softness keeps it hidden.  

But beneath the delicate layers, the truth is this:  

I am furious.  

Furious at the injustices.  

Furious at how people can be so cruel, so careless with each other, with the world.  

But here's the thing: my anger doesn't turn me into what I fear.  

It could, if I let it.  

It could twist me, make me hard, make me cold like so many I see around me.  

But my empathy won't allow it.  

It keeps me grounded, reminding me that no matter how justified my anger is, I can’t become the monster I despise.

My empathy is my biggest ally.  

It’s the reason I can’t fully let go of hope, even when the world makes it so hard to hold on.  

Many people — people with as much anger as I carry have turned their rage into something ugly.  

They’ve become bitter, unforgiving, and lost to the very darkness they once fought.  

But I can’t let myself become that.  

My anger and my empathy are balanced, equal in force, pulling me in different directions. And I’ve learned to live with that tension, knowing that I’m not going to lose myself in either of them.

I wish more people understood that anger isn’t the opposite of love.  

Sometimes, it’s the thing that pushes us to care more.  

But it’s the balance, the empathy, that keeps it from destroying us.

I don’t think I’m better than anyone.

At least, not in the way some people might imagine.

I don’t look in the mirror and feel superior.

In fact, a few years ago, I thought of myself as one of the worst humans out there.

I carried that weight, and it felt heavier than anything else.

But not anymore.

Not because I believe I’m better, but because I’ve accepted that I am just human.

We all are.

I prefer a modest life for this reason.

I don’t chase after wealth, not because I don’t dream, but because I’m afraid of what I could become with it.

We’re all tempted by the idea of money, of luxury, of the ability to chase our dreams without restriction.

But here’s the thing: I’m afraid of the power it could give me.

What if I become like the people I despise, just because I have the means to?

What if I lose myself in the very thing that makes others cruel, money, influence, control?

I don’t want to live that life.

I don’t want to fall prey to the temptation of more and lose what makes me the human I am.

People rarely believe me when I say this. But this is the truth. I'm not into money or competition.

I’ve seen it happen to others, people who had good hearts once, but got lost along the way.

That fear keeps me grounded.

So, I choose to stay beneath, to remain humble.

I protect myself by choosing to stay in spaces that won’t change who I am at my core.

Because I know, if I ever let the world’s temptations pull me too far, I might forget what it means to be kind, to be soft.

At times, my social anxiety and misanthropy weigh heavily on me, leading me to feel like life is too difficult to bear. These feelings can make me question my place in the world and even bring me to moments where I wonder if I should simply escape it all.

However, in the midst of these dark thoughts, I find solace within my inner world. It is a place where I can retreat, where I can still hold on to something meaningful, even if the outside world feels overwhelming. My spirituality, particularly Shinto, plays a significant role in grounding me. It helps me feel connected to something greater than myself, reminding me that there is beauty, balance in the universe, even when I struggle to see it.

Though the feelings of despair sometimes arise, these practices allow me to keep moving forward. They remind me that even in moments of deep loneliness and doubt, there is a path to healing, one that doesn’t depend on the outside world, but on the strength I can find within myself.

So yes, my disenchantment with humanity is real.

It’s full of anger.

But it’s also full of empathy.

And those two things ; they’re equal in me. They hold each other back. But they protect me from falling too far into cruelty or into naivety.