Welcome to We Interrupt Your Programming, I’m Dr. Corinne Votaw-Freer, you’re host for this excursion. I’m a social psychologist, malcontent humanist, and as of last week according to google, a “Public Figure.” So I guess that means I’m allowed to be targeted with libel and slander without recourse. Meh, any press is good press.

Today, we’re tackling a question that seems straightforward but carries a lot of weight: What do we owe to each other, if anything? For centuries, big thinkers like Aristotle and Kant have wrestled with this idea, shaping how we think about ethics and community. But in today’s polarized world, our collective answers feel more divided than ever.

Even so, I like to believe we all share a common goal: that no one should have to suffer unnecessarily and that every person deserves dignity, comfort, and respect. Lately, though, I’ve felt doubt creeping in. It’s getting harder to see a shared commitment to those values. Is that hope universal, or is it just my own wishful thinking, hanging on by a thread? I find myself caught between two choices: giving in to cynicism or trying even harder to connect, to bridge gaps, and to spark compassion—even when it feels buried under the weight of division.

This tension feels personal because it mirrors what’s happening around us. We often rely on stereotypes to make sense of things, even when they oversimplify the truth. You’ve probably heard the phrase: Democrats care about others; Republicans care about themselves. It’s catchy, it’s divisive, and it’s easy to use as a talking point. But is it true? Is there real evidence behind it, or is it just another way we oversimplify people’s values into neat, but misleading, soundbites?

At first glance, it’s easy to see why these ideas about Democrats and Republicans stick around. Democrats are often seen as fighters for social justice and equality, while Republicans focus on personal responsibility, small government, and skepticism toward sweeping changes. On the surface, it seems like a clear divide—one side cares about others, the other cares about themselves. But the truth is much messier. When you factor in individual experiences, cultural influences, and personal histories, the line between compassion and self-interest isn’t so clear. Both can exist within any political ideology, even if we don’t always notice it.

Maybe the real divide isn’t about values at all—it’s about the stories we tell ourselves. These stories shape how we view “our side” and judge the “other side.” If that’s true, then figuring out what we owe to each other means looking beyond labels. It means asking harder questions about the narratives we’ve embraced, the biases we carry, and the stereotypes we cling to. In this episode, we’ll dig into where these political identities come from, why they persist, and where they start to fall apart. If we want to better understand our shared—or conflicting—responsibilities, we need to look at the lenses we use to interpret the world. Only then can we start to repair the divides and find a way back to shared compassion.

The idea that Democrats care more about others and Republicans focus on themselves seems to fit with what we see in their policies, messaging, and priorities. Let’s break down these patterns to understand why they resonate so strongly.

Democrats often advocate for policies like universal healthcare, affordable housing, and food assistance programs. These efforts are designed to support the most vulnerable in society, offering help to people who need it most. Supporters see these programs as acts of collective care, ensuring that no one is left behind because of circumstances beyond their control. Take Medicaid expansion under the Affordable Care Act, for example. It provided healthcare to millions of low-income Americans, reinforcing the idea that Democrats prioritize the collective good. Slogans like “Healthcare is a human right” further drive home this image, painting Democratic policies as rooted in empathy and systemic care.

On the other hand, Republicans tend to emphasize personal accountability and hard work, believing that success comes from individual effort. This perspective often includes a skepticism of government programs, which they argue can create dependency and hinder personal growth. Critics see this as neglecting those in need, but supporters view it as a way to honor human potential and self-reliance. For example, Republicans often promote health savings accounts, or HSAs, as an alternative to government-run healthcare. These accounts let people manage their own healthcare spending, reinforcing the belief that personal responsibility leads to better outcomes. For many, this focus on independence aligns with the classic American dream of self-made success.

Democrats also frequently position themselves as champions for marginalized groups, from LGBTQ+ rights to racial equity and reproductive freedom. Their messaging often highlights stories of people who’ve been excluded or oppressed, framing Democratic policies as pathways to justice and equality. The push for marriage equality, for instance, was heavily driven by Democratic leaders and activists. Efforts to reform policing and address racial injustice are other examples of how Democrats aim to tackle systemic barriers and build a fairer society.

Republicans, meanwhile, focus on tax cuts, particularly for businesses and higher earners—a stance often criticized as favoring the wealthy. But supporters argue that these policies fuel economic growth, creating jobs and opportunities that benefit everyone in the long run. Consider the 2017 Tax Cuts and Jobs Act. While controversial, its advocates claimed it would boost investment and raise wages by lowering corporate taxes. This reflects a core Republican belief: empowering individuals and businesses to succeed ultimately strengthens the whole economy.

By breaking down these narratives, it’s easier to see why they resonate so strongly—but also where they fall short. They’re compelling because they simplify a complex world, giving us a clear sense of who’s on “our side” and who isn’t. But reality is rarely that tidy. If we want to truly understand what connects us—or what divides us—we need to move past these surface-level stories. We have to dig deeper into the values they reflect, the assumptions they carry, and the biases they reinforce. Only then can we start to see the full picture.

These examples help explain why the stereotype that Democrats are more altruistic and Republicans are more individualistic has staying power—it aligns with the visible messaging and policies of each party. But this simple dichotomy misses the mark, reducing a much more complex reality into an easy narrative.

While these patterns create compelling stories, they start to unravel when we look closer. The idea that one side is inherently more compassionate than the other just doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

Take, for instance, the Republican emphasis on community and local action. While Republicans often resist large-scale government programs, they frequently support community-driven initiatives. Churches, civic organizations, and grassroots groups play a big role in offering aid, creating a decentralized but deeply personal way to care for others. These efforts show that compassion doesn’t always have to come through government intervention. For example, many faith-based organizations, often supported by conservative donors, provide food, housing, and education to families in need. Local food pantries, disaster relief efforts, and addiction recovery programs in Republican-led areas demonstrate a strong commitment to helping others through community bonds.

On the other side, we see moments where Democratic advocacy can feel performative. Democrats often position themselves as champions for marginalized groups, but sometimes their actions seem more focused on appearances than real change. For instance, critics have pointed to symbolic gestures—like renaming schools or issuing proclamations—while meaningful reforms, such as those around police accountability, remain slow or incomplete. In some cases, Democratic policies appear to prioritize affluent urban areas over rural or working-class communities, creating the impression that their compassion doesn’t extend equally to everyone.

Republicans also often demonstrate philanthropy and voluntary altruism. Many conservatives channel their compassion through private giving, reflecting their belief in voluntary generosity rather than government-mandated redistribution. Wealthy Republican donors frequently fund hospitals, universities, and disaster relief efforts. Take the Koch family, for example. While often criticized for their political influence, their charitable foundation supports initiatives like criminal justice reform and scholarships for low-income students. This kind of giving highlights a form of altruism rooted in personal choice rather than systemic obligation.

Meanwhile, Democrats sometimes face criticism for an urban bias that can lead to selective care. Their policies often focus on urban issues, such as public transit and affordable housing, but this can leave rural communities feeling left behind. For example, renewable energy initiatives, while vital for addressing climate change, can disproportionately impact coal-dependent regions, creating resentment. At the same time, Democratic leaders are sometimes accused of catering to elite interests, such as those in the tech or entertainment industries, while sidelining concerns from less visible or influential groups. This selective focus complicates the narrative that Democrats are inherently more altruistic.

When we step back and examine these patterns, it becomes clear that neither side has a monopoly on compassion—or on self-interest. Both parties, and the individuals within them, reflect a mix of values and motivations that challenge the simple stories we often tell ourselves. To understand the full picture, we need to look beyond the surface.

These contradictions reveal something important: both Democrats and Republicans show care and compassion, but in ways that align with their values and priorities. Democrats often lean toward big, systemic solutions, while Republicans focus on individual and community-driven efforts. Neither approach is automatically better, and both are rooted in deeply held beliefs about how to balance personal freedom with collective well-being.

Understanding these complexities is key if we want to move beyond divisive stereotypes and build a more empathetic society. It’s not about deciding who cares more—it’s about understanding how we care, who we believe deserves that care, and which systems we trust to deliver it. If we want to find common ground, maybe the first step is recognizing that values like compassion, responsibility, and even self-interest aren’t opposites. They’re interconnected, part of the same fabric that makes us human.

So, as we dig into these ideas, I invite you to set aside the stereotypes for a moment. Let’s lean into the nuance. Let’s look not just at what we believe about ourselves and others, but why we believe it—and what those beliefs say about our ability to connect with each other.

At the core of this conversation lies a profound question: do we have a responsibility to help others? On the surface, this seems like a moral debate—one that often pits questions of right and wrong against personal freedom or individual priorities. But if you dig deeper, this question reveals layers that go far beyond morality. It’s also about survival, meaning, and what it truly means to be human.

We are individuals, each with unique desires, struggles, and ambitions. Yet, none of us exists in a vacuum. Our lives are deeply interconnected, shaped not only by the people closest to us but also by the larger communities and societies we’re part of. From the moment we’re born, we’re reliant on others—parents, caregivers, teachers, friends, neighbors. As we grow, those connections evolve, but the truth remains: our lives are inextricably linked.

This tension—between self-interest and altruism—is as old as humanity itself. It’s a theme that philosophers, scientists, and artists have explored for centuries, seeking to understand why we care for one another and why, at times, we fail to do so. Their work illuminates not only the contradictions within us but also the potential for something greater.

Consider Rousseau. He argued that “pitié,” or instinctive compassion, is an inherent part of being human—a natural impulse that existed long before societal structures added layers of complexity. For Rousseau, this innate compassion was a cornerstone of our shared humanity, a primal force that connects us to one another. Similarly, Kant proposed his Categorical Imperative, a framework for moral behavior rooted in empathy. He challenged us to act in ways that could be universally applied, asking us to imagine a world where our choices became the standard for everyone. These ideas, though centuries old, still resonate today. They remind us that caring for others isn’t just a societal expectation—it’s something deeply ingrained in who we are.

And it’s not just philosophy that points us in this direction. Science, too, offers compelling reasons for why we help others. Evolutionary theory provides practical explanations for altruism, highlighting its role in ensuring the survival of our species. Kin selection, for instance, explains why we’re inclined to prioritize the well-being of relatives: by helping those who share our genes, we increase the likelihood of passing on those genes to future generations. Meanwhile, reciprocal altruism suggests that helping others—even those who aren’t related to us—strengthens social bonds and creates mutual benefits. When we assist others, we increase the chances that they’ll assist us in return, fostering cooperation and trust within communities.

But altruism isn’t purely transactional. There’s a deeper, more instinctive drive at play, one that goes beyond survival. Neuroscience has shown that acts of kindness activate the brain’s reward centers, releasing oxytocin and other chemicals that make us feel good. In this sense, compassion is both a biological imperative and an emotional experience, one that reinforces our connections to others while also enriching our own lives.

This blend of morality and biology paints a powerful picture of why we care. It’s not always perfect—our compassion is often selective, influenced by biases or limited by our capacity to act—but it’s undeniably central to what makes us human. Altruism, in its many forms, is a reflection of our interconnectedness. It’s an acknowledgment that we are stronger, happier, and more fulfilled when we lift each other up.

As we continue exploring these ideas, it’s worth remembering that compassion isn’t just something we do. It’s something we are. It’s woven into the fabric of our existence, present in our DNA, our cultural stories, and our everyday interactions. The challenge, then, isn’t to decide whether we should care for others—we already know that answer deep down. The real challenge is finding ways to act on that responsibility, to nurture the compassion within us and let it guide us toward a more connected and meaningful life.

Literature is filled with profound lessons about helping others. While biology may plant the seed of altruism, literature nurtures and waters it, offering rich, emotional narratives that show how acts of kindness shape not just society but the individual self. Stories explore altruism in its many forms—quiet sacrifices, bold acts of courage, and even moments of vulnerability—all revealing the transformative power of compassion.

Take George Eliot’s Middlemarch, for example. The character of Dorothea Brooke embodies the quiet, persistent nature of altruism. She sacrifices her personal ambitions and comforts to improve the lives of those around her, especially through her ill-fated marriage to the scholar Casaubon and her later support of the struggling doctor, Lydgate. Dorothea’s efforts are often misunderstood or unappreciated by those around her, but Eliot’s portrayal highlights how her generosity and selflessness transform not only the lives she touches but also her own. Through Dorothea, Eliot suggests that altruism is not about recognition or perfection—it’s about striving to make a difference, even in small, flawed ways. These imperfect acts ripple outward, creating changes we may never fully see or understand, but which nonetheless matter deeply.

Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables offers another powerful exploration of altruism, presenting kindness as a revolutionary and redemptive force. Jean Valjean’s entire life is altered by a single act of forgiveness from a bishop who chooses compassion over condemnation. This one moment of grace sets Valjean on a path of transformation, prompting him to dedicate his life to helping others. From rescuing the orphaned Cosette to sacrificing his own safety to protect others, Valjean’s story illustrates the profound impact one act of kindness can have—not only on the recipient but on an entire community. Hugo reminds us that compassion doesn’t have to be grand or dramatic to be powerful. It’s often the quiet, persistent acts of humanity that rewrite lives and challenge systemic injustice.

And then there’s Atticus Finch from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. He stands as a moral anchor in a deeply flawed and divided society, showing us the power of quiet courage. Atticus’s decision to defend Tom Robinson, a Black man falsely accused of a crime, exemplifies how helping others often requires standing alone. His defense isn’t just a professional duty; it’s a deeply moral act, rooted in his unwavering belief in justice and equality. Atticus faces immense criticism and even danger, yet he persists—not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. His story reminds us that true altruism often involves discomfort and risk, and that the courage to act in the face of opposition is what makes such acts meaningful.

In more modern terms, the idea of helping others has evolved to encompass systemic responsibility as well as individual acts of kindness. Psychologist Carol Gilligan’s concept of the “ethic of care” reframes morality as relational, emphasizing empathy and interdependence as the foundation of ethical behavior. This perspective moves beyond individual acts to challenge us to consider the larger systems and relationships that shape our world. It asks us to view responsibility not as an abstract obligation but as a natural extension of our interconnected lives. Whether through supporting social justice movements, advocating for environmental sustainability, or simply being present for those in need, the ethic of care highlights how deeply intertwined our well-being is with the well-being of others.

These narratives—both fictional and real—illustrate a universal truth: altruism is not just about helping others; it’s about shaping who we are. Acts of kindness, whether quiet or revolutionary, transform both the giver and the receiver. They remind us of our shared humanity and the potential we have to create ripples of change that extend far beyond ourselves.

We’ve also seen this play out vividly during global crises, where our interconnectedness has been both tested and proven. The COVID-19 pandemic, for instance, served as a stark reminder of how deeply our lives are intertwined. Healthcare workers risked their lives daily, often without adequate resources or rest, embodying selflessness on a massive scale. Communities rallied to support one another, organizing food drives, sewing masks, and checking on elderly neighbors. Strangers found creative ways to lift spirits, from balcony singalongs to free online classes and resources. In these moments, helping others wasn’t just an ethical choice—it was a lifeline. Without these collective efforts, the toll of the pandemic would have been even greater.

The same principle applies to the fight against climate change, another crisis that underscores our shared responsibility. From reducing carbon footprints to advocating for systemic reforms, collective action is not just helpful—it’s the only path forward. Altruism in this context goes beyond individual acts; it requires large-scale collaboration, policy changes, and a commitment to protecting the planet for future generations. These challenges highlight an undeniable truth: altruism is no longer optional. It’s a necessity for survival in an interconnected world.

But it’s equally important to examine the other side of the coin. The idea of an innate responsibility to help others has its critics, and their perspectives challenge us to think more deeply about the nature of altruism. Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism, for instance, famously rejected altruism as a virtue. She argued that prioritizing others could stifle individual freedom, creativity, and progress. In her view, self-interest wasn’t a flaw—it was the driving force behind innovation and human achievement. To Rand, acts of generosity were acceptable only when they aligned with one’s personal values or interests, not as an obligation to society.

Even in practice, altruism can be fraught with complexity. Psychological phenomena like bystander apathy reveal the ways in which our capacity for compassion doesn’t always translate into action. The tragic case of Kitty Genovese, whose murder was reportedly witnessed by dozens of people who failed to intervene, remains a haunting example. Fear, confusion, or the assumption that someone else will step in can paralyze even those with good intentions. These moments remind us that altruism is not just about instinct—it’s also about overcoming barriers that prevent us from acting.

Despite these challenges, the evidence overwhelmingly shows that helping others isn’t just beneficial for the recipient—it’s transformative for the giver. Studies in positive psychology consistently demonstrate that acts of kindness boost happiness, reduce stress, and provide a profound sense of purpose. These benefits aren’t just emotional; they’re biological. Altruism triggers the release of oxytocin, sometimes called the “love hormone,” which strengthens our social bonds and fosters feelings of trust and connection. In this way, helping others not only enriches our relationships but also reinforces our sense of belonging and well-being.

Viktor Frankl captured the essence of this dynamic in Man’s Search for Meaning. Reflecting on his harrowing experiences in Nazi concentration camps, Frankl observed how small acts of kindness—sharing a crust of bread, offering a word of encouragement, or lending a hand—provided a sense of dignity and meaning, even in the face of unimaginable suffering. For Frankl, these acts weren’t just survival strategies; they were profound expressions of humanity. By helping others, prisoners reclaimed a sense of purpose and resisted the dehumanization imposed upon them.

These stories, both real and fictional, remind us of the profound ripple effects of helping others. Acts of compassion don’t just change the world around us—they transform us from within. They remind us of our shared humanity and our capacity for resilience, even in the darkest of times. Through these connections, we find not only meaning and purpose but also something even more vital: hope. In a world that often feels fragmented and uncertain, the simple act of helping another person reminds us of our potential to build something better, together.

There’s an intrinsic call to help others—a responsibility that’s not a burden but a privilege. It connects us to something larger than ourselves, giving meaning to a world often filled with chaos and uncertainty. Whether through biology, literature, or lived experience, the message is clear: altruism isn’t about martyrdom or self-sacrifice. It’s about realizing that when we lift others, our own lives become richer.

In the end, the question isn’t whether we have a responsibility to help others—it’s how we choose to answer that call. Through small acts or big systemic changes, we have the power to create a world where compassion isn’t rare, but the norm. And in helping others, we rediscover what it means to truly live.

Stories from around the world show us this value in action.

Take, for instance, a family-owned bookstore in Seattle, Washington. Early in 2024, this beloved community hub faced closure after a devastating fire destroyed its inventory and structure. For decades, it had hosted author readings, poetry slams, and children’s story hours. When news of the fire broke, the community responded with overwhelming support. There were bake sales, crowdfunding campaigns, and even literary events to raise money. Local artists donated work for auctions, and businesses offered pop-up spaces to keep the store running while it rebuilt. In just a few months, over $150,000 was raised, and by summer, the bookstore reopened—better than ever.

This wasn’t just about saving a business. It was about preserving a shared space for connection, ideas, and creativity. It’s a powerful reminder that when communities come together, they don’t just repair structures; they strengthen the bonds that make us human.

In Ontario, Canada, during a brutal winter storm, a group of neighbors noticed an elderly woman trapped in her home. Snow had made it impossible for her to get out, and she was running low on food and medication. Instead of waiting for someone else to act, her neighbors stepped up. They shoveled her driveway, delivered groceries, and made sure she got the medication she needed. One family even brought her hot meals every day.

This kind of localized kindness is deeply moving. It’s not just about the acts themselves—it’s about paying attention, noticing someone in need, and stepping in to help. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most impactful solutions don’t come from big institutions but from everyday people looking out for each other.

In the United Kingdom, a neglected historical park became the focus of a group of determined volunteers. Overgrown and forgotten, the park was transformed as locals worked tirelessly to clear pathways, repair benches, and revitalize gardens. By the time they finished, the park had become a vibrant gathering place for families, children, and seniors.

What stands out about this story is the vision behind it. The volunteers didn’t just see a rundown park—they saw a chance to create a space where people could come together. It’s a testament to how acts of care can ripple outward, creating joy and connection for an entire community.

In Lyon, France, a Michelin-starred chef decided to use his talents for a different purpose. He launched free cooking workshops for underprivileged youth, teaching not just culinary skills but also creativity, discipline, and the value of good nutrition. Many participants went on to pursue culinary school or apprenticeships, building futures they hadn’t thought possible.

This story shows how sharing expertise can be a powerful form of giving. By teaching these young people, the chef didn’t just share his craft—he gave them a sense of agency and hope. It’s a reminder that our unique skills can be tools for empowering others.

And finally, in Tokyo, Japan, a child accidentally fell onto train tracks at a busy station. With a train approaching, commuters sprang into action. Some signaled to stop the train, while others climbed down to rescue the child. In seconds, the child was lifted to safety, and the train came to a halt.

This moment of instinctive collaboration is breathtaking. Strangers came together without hesitation, united by a shared purpose. It’s proof that even in the most individualistic environments, our instincts lean toward connection and care.

These stories, from different places and contexts, share a common thread: altruism transcends borders, cultures, and circumstances. Whether it’s through grand gestures or small acts of kindness, they remind us that helping others isn’t just something we do—it’s part of who we are.

And that’s what this podcast is all about: interrupting our programming to create a world driven by empathy and connection.

The sad truth is that most of us are too busy talking to ourselves. Calls for real human connection are hard to hear over the constant noise of echo chambers that only tell us what we want to hear. If one side of a divide doesn’t believe it needs to change, what incentive is there to seek out resources that might help make that change happen? One of the most dangerous narratives pushed by modern media is the idea that there’s nothing wrong with you. It’s usually paired with its ugly twin: there’s something wrong with them.

This isn’t just a lazy oversimplification; it’s an intellectual trap. By constantly reassuring their audiences that they’re already good, right, and smart, media outlets discourage people from engaging with anything that challenges their worldview. Why would anyone voluntarily seek out a perspective that asks them to rethink their beliefs when they’re being told they’re already on the “right side of history”?

It’s human nature to avoid things that conflict with how we see ourselves. Cognitive dissonance—the discomfort we feel when faced with contradictory information—pushes us to ignore or reject things that challenge our identity or moral framework. So, how do we bridge the divide? How do we get people to open their minds when they’d rather not?

Last week, I found myself talking to my mom about Charles Dickens. She called his work “sneaky.” At first, I pushed back—sneaky feels like a negative word, doesn’t it? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. Dickens was sneaky, but in the best way.

His novels, full of vivid characters and biting social critiques, weren’t just stories; they were strategies. Dickens knew that few people willingly engage with ideas that call them to be better. So instead of confronting his readers head-on, he told stories that bypassed their defenses. He wrapped harsh truths in engaging narratives, planting seeds of empathy in readers who might have otherwise dismissed his message.

Isn’t that what religion does too? Parables, morality tales—they work the same way. They sneak lessons into our hearts by sparking curiosity and wonder instead of triggering our defenses. Maybe “sneaky” isn’t a bad word after all. Maybe it’s just a strategy for reaching people who aren’t ready—or willing—to listen.

Which brings us back to the media-driven polarization we see today. If calls for self-reflection are dismissed as attacks and honest critiques are written off as propaganda, maybe the only way to reach across the divide is through the back door—through stories, through art, through human connection.

Dickens knew this. And deep down, I think we know it too. It’s not about tricking people—it’s about meeting them where they are, speaking in ways they can hear rather than the ways we want to shout. Because at the end of the day, we’re not trying to win an argument. We’re trying to build a bridge. And bridges aren’t built by yelling across a divide—they’re built one careful, deliberate step at a time.

Empathy is often called the magic ingredient for a better world. It’s the cure for division, misunderstanding, and hostility. But empathy doesn’t appear out of nowhere, and it doesn’t grow in isolation. It needs proximity to people who are different from us. It requires listening, and—maybe most of all—it requires trust.

We often tell those with privilege, “Step outside your bubble. Seek out voices that are different from yours. Listen and learn.” And that’s important, but it’s only part of the story. True empathy takes effort from both sides. Marginalized people, who often bear the heaviest weight of systemic inequities, are also tasked with creating spaces where others feel safe enough to listen.

It’s an unfair dynamic, no doubt. But trust doesn’t grow out of fairness. It grows in messy, uneven spaces where discomfort meets vulnerability.

Empathy starts with exposure. It’s hard to empathize with someone whose life feels distant or abstract. But human nature nudges us toward familiarity. Most of us spend time with people who look, think, and live like us. These circles feel safe, but they also limit our perspective.

When we get to know someone who challenges our assumptions, everything shifts. A faceless “other” becomes a friend, a neighbor, or a colleague. It’s harder to hold onto stereotypes when you’ve shared a laugh or a moment of vulnerability with someone who breaks them. But this kind of connection takes more than proximity—it takes trust. And trust is built through deliberate and often uncomfortable effort.

For marginalized individuals, fostering trust can feel exhausting. They’re often expected to share their stories, educate others, and navigate the ignorance and missteps of those still learning. It’s a heavy ask. Why should those already carrying the weight of systemic inequality also take on the responsibility of helping others grow?

The truth is, they shouldn’t have to. But human connection doesn’t play by the rules of fairness. For empathy to grow, there has to be a bridge—and marginalized individuals are often the ones laying the first plank. This doesn’t mean tolerating harm or sacrificing boundaries. It means strategically creating opportunities for connection, moments where others can listen and learn.

For those with privilege, it means stepping into unfamiliar spaces and being open to discomfort. It means reading, watching, and listening to stories that challenge your worldview. It means making mistakes, owning them, and approaching every conversation with humility.

For both sides, fostering connection requires action. Shared spaces—community events, storytelling workshops, even casual gatherings—offer neutral ground for these interactions to unfold. Discomfort will arise, but that’s where growth happens.

Empathy isn’t built in a single moment. It’s a process, a loop of listening, learning, and growing. And while the work is uneven—while marginalized people often give more, and privileged people have to unlearn more—the rewards are worth it.

Empathy starts with knowing. It grows in the act of listening. And it thrives in the messy, beautiful middle ground of human connection. It’s here, in this shared space, that understanding can transform people, relationships, and communities.

That’s it for this weeks episode. Starting next week, I’ll be shifting to the use of weekly news as a way of centering discussion about the relevant things going on in the country and the world. It will be a dive into current events as a way of making all of these concepts more easily integratable into your day to day life. Thanks for listening. We’ll talk more soon.