Last week was my birthday. I’ve had more of them now than I have ahead of me, and that sobering truth has weighed heavy this year. A few days earlier, a dear friend passed from ALS. It’s one of those diseases that steals everything slowly. Relationships. Laughter. Memory. Love. Life is fragile and much too often changes too quickly, especially in our older years.
The combination of those two moments—grief and reflection—have left me quieter than usual. More watchful. More sensitive to the fractured world we’re living in. I found myself thinking not only about how short life is, but how loud the world has become in its anger.
I watched the No Kings protests unfold from my couch, recovering from surgery. And I’ve followed the aftermath. And grieving the way the comments unfolded on both sides. The rhetoric. The anger. The refusal to listen. The social media storm that has become all too predictable, regardless of which side is shouting. We are in a moment of deep cultural fracture, one where it feels like empathy has not just left the room, but been mocked on its way out the door.
I’ve spent most of my adult life as a conservative Christian. I’ve gone on mission trips with those who voted differently from me. I’ve worked alongside people whose values, like mine, are shaped by faith and a desire to serve. I’ve held sick children in remote villages and gotten ill from the same contaminated water they drink every day. I’ve seen extreme poverty. I’ve seen hopelessness. And I’ve seen it here, too—in our own underserved communities, tucked away in the corners of our cities, ignored until someone decides they matter.
There are parts of me that feel politically homeless these days. Too conservative for some, too compassionate for others. I see the angry Facebook posts. I’ve read the venom in comment threads. I’ve felt the churn in my spirit when people claim faith and yet spew hatred.
It weighs heavy. And if you’re feeling that, too—you’re not alone.
We live in a country where diseases I saw in remote villages are now in our own underserved communities. The need is not far away. It is in our neighborhoods. And yet we argue about who deserves help instead of rushing to provide it. But despite what I’ve witnessed, I’m more unsettled now than ever before. Not because of policy or politics—though those matter. But because we’ve stopped seeing one another as human.
It’s disorienting. It’s painful. And sometimes, it feels utterly hopeless.
It’s as if empathy has been dismissed as weakness. Or worse, as betrayal. We’ve allowed outrage to become our compass and contempt to become our currency. We define people by the labels we place on them and forget that they, too, have a story. A wound. A reason. A soul.
A recent tragedy reminded me how close to home this hits. Minnesota State Senator Melissa Hortman and her husband were killed by a man who attended a Dallas-based religious college. I’ve attended worship services at that very place. Our lives were not far apart. And yet somehow, radically different values led to this. I can’t stop thinking about how this happens. What makes someone so detached from the value of another life? Is it rage? Indoctrination, being convinced political viewpoints actually negate life? A complete depletion of empathy?
But here’s what I know to be true: empathy changes life.
Not through sweeping legislation, or viral hashtags, or perfectly crafted blog posts—though those all have their place. Empathy changes things in how we show up. In how we listen. In how we keep choosing to care, even when it doesn’t feel effective or appreciated.
I feel trapped between two extremes. Too conservative to be comfortable in liberal circles. Too empathetic to join in with the cruelty I see online. I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: empathy is not partisan. It is not soft. It is not a luxury. It is not “woke” – I HATE that word. Empathy is essential.
Empathy, to me, is more than kindness. It’s more than a soft virtue. It’s an act of resistance. It’s declaring that someone else’s pain matters, even if I don’t share it. That their experience matters, even if I can’t fully understand it. And that they matter, even if they vote or believe or live differently than I do.
There has to be a voice—some voice—crying out in the wilderness. Not for power. Not for control. But for compassion. Maybe that voice is mine. Maybe it’s yours. Maybe it’s both of us whispering when the world is screaming.
I don’t want to be another echo in the chamber. I want to be someone who remembers that behind every protest sign is a person. Behind every angry post is a pain. And behind every political stance is a story worth hearing, even if I don’t agree with it.
As I reflect on all of this—what empathy really means, how fractured we’ve become, and what kind of legacy we leave behind—I’m reminded of the photo I chose to accompany this post.
It was taken in 2018, during a visit to my dear friend’s lake house, the one who just passed away. She’s the one who captured this moment and she always said it was her favorite photo of me. We had such a wonderful time that trip—just three friends laughing, talking, and soaking in the beauty around us. It was one of those weekends where time slows down and you remember what really matters. That kind of presence, that kind of joy, has stayed with me ever since.
I chose this photo not just because it’s meaningful to me, but because it says something words can’t. My arms stretched toward the rising sun feel like a symbol of hope, of longing, of surrender. In a world that feels increasingly loud and angry, I want to remember—and invite you to remember—what it’s like to live with open arms and a soft heart.
As I reflect on what remains of my days ahead, I know they are fewer than the days behind me. Life is indeed fragile. That reality changes how I see things. I no longer have time for outrage without action, or for alliances that require silence in the face of injustice.
Because empathy isn’t weakness. It’s strength. Empathy is a choice. Every day. In every post. In every conversation. We can’t change the world overnight, but we can choose to care—deeply, intentionally, and without condition.
We must.
Even when it’s inconvenient.
Even when no one notices.
Even when others roll their eyes.
Because that is how change begins.