Empathy for Content

When Helping Becomes Content and Compassion Becomes Hashtags 

There was a time when people helped each other just… because. Not for recognition, not for a camera, not for likes or follows — but because it was the human thing to do. If you saw someone fall, you ran to lift them up. If someone was hungry, you gave what you could, even if it was just a piece of your lunch. There was a kind of sacredness to that quiet, selfless care — and it’s something I’ve noticed fading as social media continues to tighten its grip on our daily lives.

We used to show up for each other. Now, we show up for the algorithm.

I find myself scrolling through social media and seeing things that honestly break my heart — not just the tragedies themselves, but the way they’re treated. Someone gets hit by a car, and instead of running to help, people whip out their phones. A fight breaks out in a school hallway and rather than stepping in, we see a dozen angles of it on TikTok before the school even finds out it happened. There’s no moment of “Is this okay to share?”; it’s just instant: film it, post it, monetize it.

This is where I think about Childish Gambino’s 

"This Is America."

When that video dropped, it hit like a punch to the gut. It was layered, chaotic, intentional. That track is a masterclass in contrast — flashing images of celebration and horror, dancing and death, going viral and going numb. The message? We’re distracted.  It captured not just the violence and distraction in America, but the desensitization — the way we consume pain like it’s just another clip to scroll past. But what we don’t always say out loud is that it’s not just America anymore. It’s everywhere. That same frantic energy, that need to perform rather than feel, has gone global.

We’re all becoming actors in our own highlight reels, and sometimes even our kindness is scripted.

Take those videos where someone surprises a homeless person with food or a wad of cash. On the surface, they seem touching. But watch closely. You’ll see the overly dramatic background music, the exaggerated reactions, the forced narration: 

“Watch what happens when I give this man a sandwich.”

It’s a performance. And while yes, that person might genuinely be helped in the moment, you can’t ignore the power imbalance. The person receiving help becomes part of a storyline designed to pull heartstrings and push views. These “random” acts of kindness doesn’t feel real. You can tell it’s not real —you can feel it. You can see it in the eyes of the person filming. You can hear it in the voiceover. It's less “look what I’m doing to help,” and more “look at me helping.” It’s subtle, but powerful; that difference between helping and showing you helped.
 

❤️

And after watching every video, I wonder: would you have still helped that person if there was no camera? If no one would ever know?

We’re losing something sacred — the beauty of anonymous goodness. The kind that isn’t curated, filtered, or tracked by engagement stats. I’m not saying everyone is faking it. There are real people out there doing real good. But the rise of "charity content" makes it harder to tell the difference. And it makes me worry that even good intentions are being shaped by the wrong incentives.

What we reward is what we grow. And right now, we’re rewarding spectacle over sincerity.

This isn’t a call to delete your apps or never film anything again. Social media can be powerful — it can bring awareness, build community, and drive real change. But it should never replace actual connection. It should never be more important to film a moment than to be fully present in it.

It’s not that people have lost their ability to care; I don’t believe that. I believe people do care. But we’ve let the digital world warp our instincts. We reach for our phones before we reach for someone’s hand. We need to stop performing our empathy, and go back to living it. 

—HumanityECW