A Unique Species

A few years ago, my kids and I stumbled upon the insane mystery of Devil’s Hole in Death Valley National Park, Nevada. This ultra-deep pool of water fed by underground aquifers lies in one of the most arid regions on earth. It is also habitat to one of the rarest subspecies of fish on the planet, the Devil’s Hole Desert Pupfish. Part of the intrigue of Devil’s Hole lies in the complex depth of its crystal-clear water—so deep that researchers theorize about its connection to faraway parts of the world. When a 7.9 earthquake rocked the coast of Kodiak, Alaska, 2000 miles to the north, tsunami-like waves rocked in response in the depth of Devil’s Hole. Same thing when a 7.2 magnitude quake hit in Oaxaca, Mexico, some 2000 miles south. Deep, intricate, interconnected, and life-giving… 

About five years ago, in a desperate attempt to understand my ten-year-old daughter’s utter exhaustion and overstimulation during and after a week of Bible camp, I came across Elaine Aaron’s book The Highly Sensitive Child. High sensitivity became my very own Devil’s Hole. In an arid, inhospitable landscape, the notion of the highly sensitive person was an oasis of life-giving explanations for deep creativity, incredible imagination, extreme impatience, and utter exhaustion. Suddenly, all the tears and time outs over itchy pants, unending audio books, and quiet-time-else-I-perish settled into place. My kids were rare species of pupfish thriving only in a deep, aquafer-fed habitat rich with their particular foods, rhythms, and life-giving habits. 

As I gave them permission to be in this unique dwelling, I gradually came to extend the same kindness and curiosity to myself. It was time to tell myself the truth. 

As an unknowingly highly sensitive teenager, my artistic, deeply feeling, and borderline-anemic body struggled constantly with exhaustion. I regularly packed up my schoolwork and headed to bed between 9:30 and 10 pm, on the verge, it felt, of extinction. 

‘’I don’t know how you’ll ever make it through college,’’ my mom informed me, glancing at me askew at the bottom of the steps. She never went to bed before 11:30 or midnight, when she’d finished grading papers for her math students. 

I felt like a failure in her eyes, despite my high academic standing, finishing salutatorian of my high school class. I entered college with a full semester’s worth of credits from AP exams. Still, I don’t remember a single word of praise from my mom. Instead, she regarded me with analytical skepticism: “Why don’t you move your legs faster when you run?” “You’ll grow love handles if you keep eating white bread.” “Don’t snack while you cook.” 

Her silence cost me the most. Silence about my dysregulated body that still didn’t menstruate monthly even when I was 17 years old. Lack of curiosity about my intense reactivity to poison ivy that landed me on steroid-level medication while in school. Passivity about my low iron levels and borderline anemia. Silent relief when my eyesight stopped plummeting a point every year, meaning less financial cost to increase my eyeglass lens strength. 

I still remember the sinking feeling I felt in my gut as a seven-year-old when she stamped her foot in the kitchen and exclaimed, “Not again!” when my eyesight diminished another notch. Despite daily eye-strengthening exercises in the dark, I couldn’t halt the deterioration of my eyesight. I internalized all these negative points and saw myself as she saw me, a near-sighted, highly sensitive, outrageously emotional girl. 

But what if.

What if the peculiarities of being highly sensitive, nearsighted, and artistic are now what uniquely equip me to shepherd my little clan of pupfish?

To preserve their habitat, to navigate them away from danger and into safe places for their sensitive hearts to thrive? Devil’s Hole is highly protected, carefully monitored, and zealously studied by a team of specialists four times a year. Their goal? To preserve the twenty-some endemic life forms thriving in its unique refuge. Furthermore, its deep sensitivity to earthquakes elsewhere in the world (technically termed seismic seiche) continues to amaze researchers. Similarly, it amazes me how intricately connected those attuned to the effects of trauma and abuse are to one another. They can echo back empathic responses to others’ pain. Only through these empathic echoes do we begin to see ourselves and each other rightly. Compassionately. Courageously. 

These past two months more tears have poured out of my body than in the past twenty years combined. I have seen for the first time the harm perpetrated against my younger self and its hardening impact on my heart. Yet, as I carefully begin to scoop away piles of sediment, rock, and vegetation, I glimpse the depth of heartache that, miraculously, has also preserved and sustained life.

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Rebecca Jacques is wrapping up a decade of homeschooling and wondering what God has in store for her next. She’s an artist and a novice maple syrup producer. Though new to story work, she longs for hope, integration, and healing to take root and grow in safe, Christ-centered communities in the French-speaking province of Quebec, Canada. Her husband is calm, her teens are neurodivergent, and her German Shepherds are wild.