She walks through the door, keys still in hand, her eyes puffy from crying in the car. Her voice is thin and low as she says, "Today was really hard." There is a weight in her body language, the kind that asks not for fixing, but for noticing.
He looks up from his phone, nods distractedly, and before she settles into the seat next to him, he says, "Why is our credit card bill so high this month?"
And just like that, she disappears.
Not physically, but emotionally. The small thread of vulnerability she offered is left dangling, untouched. What she needed was for someone to see her. To slow down. To ask, gently, "Do you want to talk about it?" or even just "Are you okay?" Instead, her pain was quietly eclipsed.
This is where so many of us are now. Not unkind. Not deliberately careless. Just... absent in the moments that ask us to be tender. Distracted by our own noise, overwhelmed by a tired heart, our own mental load spills into that space that someone else needed us to hold. And just like that, empathy goes missing. Not because we don’t care, but also because we don’t always know how to show it, unaware of the space between us that keeps widening when we miss each other this way.
It takes energy to truly see someone. It takes courage to sit with discomfort instead of brushing past it. It takes intention to stay.
It’s true…something feels off lately.
You can hear it in the way we talk to each other, or rather, in how often we don’t. You can feel it in the rushed or absent texts, the missed cues, the way our eyes skim past people as if we’re scanning for problems, not presence. Whether it’s at work, in our friendships, or in the relationships we depend on most, something subtle has slipped out of reach: empathy.
But something inside us still wants that kind of connection. We still long for those moments when someone really looks at us and says, without saying, “I’m here. I get it. You’re not alone.”
So the question isn’t just “Where did our empathy go?”
It’s: How do we bring it back?
Empathy often gets mistaken for something soft and sentimental—a nice-to-have if there's time. But it’s not optional. It’s the root of trust, safety, and real understanding. Without it, we’re left with relationships that function on the surface but hollow out underneath.
Empathy, at its core, is the ability to emotionally step into someone else’s world, to feel with them rather than for them, and to respond in a way that honors their experience.
This is different from sympathy. Sympathy is feeling for someone—"I feel sorry for you." It keeps a bit of distance. Empathy is feeling with someone—"I understand this pain because I’m willing to step into it with you." Where sympathy looks down into the well, empathy climbs down and sits beside.
And yet, we rarely learn how to actually practice empathy. It’s assumed we either have it or we don’t, when in reality, it’s a skill. A quiet, tender discipline. A habit of staying curious about someone else’s inner world, even when it’s messy or uncomfortable.
Think about the last time someone truly empathized with you. Maybe they didn’t say much. Maybe they just listened, nodded, and didn’t try to fix anything. Maybe their eyes softened a little when you shared something hard. That moment likely did more to make you feel seen than hours of well-intended advice ever could.
That’s the thing: empathy doesn’t always sound profound. Often, it’s quiet. It’s a pause instead of a reply. It’s the willingness to sit with someone’s pain without needing to tidy it up.
But how do we start bringing more of it into our lives, especially when the world around us feels anything but gentle?
Start with presence. Real presence. Not the kind where you’re nodding while secretly rehearsing your next point. But the kind where you slow down just enough to notice. You notice the way their shoulders dropped when they mentioned work. You notice the slight catch in their voice when they said they were "fine." You notice the quivering lip, and the moist eyes before they turn their face away & hide.
Presence is what empathy grows from. It tells the other person, you matter enough for me to pause. And in a world that rarely pauses, that alone is healing.
When someone shares something vulnerable, resist the urge to jump in with a solution. This is hard. Most of us were taught that caring means fixing. But often, what people want isn’t advice. They want company. They want to feel less alone in whatever they’re holding.
So instead of, “Here’s what you should do,” try something softer. Try, “That sounds really hard.” Try, “I can see why that would feel overwhelming.” Try, “Do you want me to just listen, or do you want to talk through ideas?”
It’s a small shift, but it changes everything. It gives the other person space. It gives them dignity. And it signals that you’re willing to walk beside them, not pull them out before they’re ready.
We can also practice staying. By that, I mean resisting the subtle urge to back away from emotional intensity. When someone starts crying, or gets angry, or goes quiet, most of us want to fill the silence. Or change the subject. Or move to something easier.
But empathy lives in the staying. You don’t need the perfect response. You just need to be willing to stay. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it makes your chest tighten. Even if you don’t know what to say.
That’s the paradox: people don’t need your answers, they need your presence.
In relationships—especially the ones that matter most—this kind of emotional attunement is everything. Without it, conversations become logistics. Conflicts become battles. Love becomes performance.
But with empathy, even hard conversations become chances to build closeness.
Let’s say your partner tells you they feel like you’ve been distant. The reflex might be to get defensive, to explain, to prove that you haven’t been. But what if instead, you took a breath and simply said, “That hurts to hear. But I want to understand more. Can you tell me what you’ve been feeling?”
That’s empathy. It’s the willingness to set down your armor and just be with someone in their reality, even if it stings.
Or consider the quieter misses that happen in long-term relationships. A partner shares how overwhelmed they feel managing the kids and work, and the other replies, "You'll be fine. You always figure it out." It sounds encouraging on the surface, but what it really does is close the door. It says: “I don't want to sit in this with you.” It says: “Your pain makes me uncomfortable.” And that, more than the words themselves, is what distances people.
And sometimes, empathy means going first. Naming your own feelings. Saying, "I'm scared," or "I'm confused," or "I feel far from you lately, and I don’t want to."
That kind of honesty is vulnerable. But it’s also contagious. When you speak from your heart, you make it safer for others to do the same.
In workplaces, empathy doesn’t always look like big emotional conversations. Often, it shows up in small gestures. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt. Asking how they’re holding up. Taking a minute before a meeting to check in on the human, not just the project.
When a colleague seems short or distracted, empathy asks: “What else might be going on?”
Imagine a team member shares in a meeting that they're struggling with their workload, and the manager quickly replies, "We're all slammed right now. Let's just push through." Again, it might be meant as motivational, but what it really communicates is: “Your experience isn't unique. We don't have time for your struggle.”
Contrast that with a response like, "That sounds like a heavy load. Let's figure out how to support you better." That small shift makes people feel seen. It makes it easier for them to keep showing up.
These tiny moments shift the culture. They remind people they don’t have to leave their feelings at the door to be taken seriously. They remind people they’re not just a role—they’re a person.
The world is noisy. And fast. And often unkind. But in that chaos, empathy can be an anchor.
It doesn’t ask us to solve everything. It just asks us to show up. To slow down. To care a little more than is convenient.
And maybe that’s the most radical thing we can do right now: care deeply, even when it’s easier not to. See each other, even when it’s easier to scroll past. Stay with someone, even when their pain makes us squirm.
Empathy is a practice. A posture. A promise to keep showing up with our hearts intact.
And the beautiful thing is, it doesn’t require perfection.
Just presence.