When Empathy is Hard

Right now, I notice how hard empathy is for me.
And I don’t think that’s a personal failure. I think it’s human.

When events unfold that involve violence, power, fear, and loss of life, something inside us tightens. Our nervous systems look for certainty. Our minds look for sides. Our hearts look for safety.

Empathy often disappears first.

I want to name a few things plainly and with full ownership. 

I do not agree with the tactics used by federal immigration agents in the United States right now.

I believe the deaths of Renée Good and Alex Pretti at the hands of federal immigration agents were wrong.

Those beliefs are not political positions for me. They are moral ones. They come from a deep care for human life and a concern about how power is exercised when fear and authority collide.

At the same time, I’m aware of how quickly empathy becomes complicated in moments like this. How fast it turns into something conditional. How easily it collapses into outrage, certainty, or numbness.

And I need to say this too.

I am scared in this country.

I am not White. My parents are not White. They speak with an accent. That fact lives in my body, not just in my head. It shapes how I move through the world, how I read the news, and how I imagine safety. 

When I read about an older Hmong American man being detained at gunpoint inside his home and later confirmed to be a U.S. citizen with no criminal record, I felt how easily that could have been my dad.

When systems that hold weapons and authority feel unaccountable or dehumanizing, that fear becomes very real.

Empathy is hard when you are afraid.
Empathy is hard when you feel unseen.
Empathy is hard when the stakes feel personal.

And here is where it gets even harder.

I notice how little empathy I want to have for the shooters. How quickly part of me shuts that door. How tempting it is to turn people into monsters so I don’t have to ask uncomfortable questions.

I notice something similar in myself toward national leaders who make statements that contradict the evidence I see and hear with my own eyes and ears. How fast my curiosity disappears. How easily I flatten them into caricatures so I don’t have to sit with the fear, confusion, or powerlessness that lives underneath my anger.

In both cases, the move is the same. I stop wondering how we got here. I stop asking what incentives, systems, fears, and narratives shape behavior at scale. 

I understand that instinct. It’s protective.

And I also know this: refusing to ask what shaped someone does not make us safer. It only prevents us from understanding the conditions, training, fear, pressure, or conditioning that make violence possible in the first place.

Empathy here does not mean forgiveness.
It does not mean excuse.
It does not mean the absence of accountability.

It means refusing to abandon our humanity, even when it would be easier to do so.

Empathy doesn’t erase harm or responsibility. It’s about staying curious enough to keep learning, and regulated enough to not harden into certainty that closes the door on change.

Right now, many people are hurting. Some are grieving. Some are angry. Some are terrified. Some are clinging to certainty because uncertainty feels unbearable.

When empathy is hard, it’s often because our nervous systems are overwhelmed. Because fear is louder than curiosity. Because safety feels scarce.

That’s not a character flaw. It’s a signal.

And leadership, in moments like this, is not about having the right take. It’s about staying human when it would be easier to become rigid. It’s about holding grief and accountability at the same time. It’s about caring for victims without turning understanding into betrayal.

I don’t have neat answers. I don’t trust neat answers in moments like this.

What I do trust is this: empathy is not a luxury. It is not weakness. It is not optional if we want a future that is safer, more just, and more humane.

And when empathy is hard, that may be the moment it matters most.

If something stirred as you read this, good. That tells me it touched something real.

You’re welcome to share it. You’re welcome to respond. I genuinely want to understand how this lands for you.

And before you comment, I ask one thing.

Please also take a moment to try to understand how this feels for me.

We don’t have to agree. But we do have to stay human.