An Infusion of Empathy
Lately, I’ve been carrying around this steady, low-grade urge to give the world a giant dose of empathy. Not in a grand, superhero way. More like a quiet nudge. A refill. A top-off. Something warm poured into everyone’s emotional coffee cups before we head back out into the swirl of our lives.
It’s not lost on me that this urge didn’t just appear out of nowhere. It comes from the life I’ve lived, the grief I’ve survived, and the way losing Ken rearranged every part of who I am. Grief stretched my heart in ways I didn’t ask for, but it also made me pay more attention. It taught me that people move through the world carrying stories we’ll never see unless they trust us enough to share them. And trust usually starts with empathy.
For years after Ken died, I felt like I was walking around without my protective layer. I wasn’t fragile, exactly, but I was transparent in a way I’d never been before. Other people’s hurt hit differently. I noticed the tired eyes behind fake smiles. I noticed when someone’s voice cracked, even though they tried to hide it. I noticed when someone was trying hard not to take up space.
That noticing has stayed with me.
Maybe that’s why I believe so deeply in the small gestures—checking in, softening your tone, assuming good intent, listening to understand instead of listening to answer. These aren’t groundbreaking ideas. They’re simple, human things we forget to do when we’re rushing, stressed, overwhelmed, or convinced we’re the only ones juggling something heavy.
I’ve seen what happens when empathy is the default instead of the exception. It changes the temperature of a room. It opens conversations instead of shutting them down. It makes people breathe a little easier because they know they don’t have to be bulletproof to belong.
And honestly, I’m not sure the world is short on empathy. I think it’s short on reminders. We get distracted. We get busy. We forget how much power there is in one gentle moment.
So here’s my reminder—to myself as much as anyone else:
A little empathy goes further than we think. It doesn’t just help someone else feel understood and seen. It pulls us closer to our own humanity. It keeps us soft in a world that can be hard. It builds bridges we didn’t even know we needed.
I want to keep giving that away — through my writing. Through the way I show up in conversations. Through the stories I choose to tell and the ones I’m still learning how to hold.
If empathy is an infusion, then maybe writing is how I administer it—one essay, one post, one honest moment at a time.
And the more I give, the more I realize: there’s always more to go around.
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