I, Too, Was There: The False Empathy Trap in Public Suffering

Examining the desire to be seen in pain, we didn’t process ourselves
Last week, my wife said something that stuck with me:

“It felt like everyone I talked to was being vulnerable — but not because they wanted to be.”

She described a week filled with clients in various states of emotional unraveling. People were sharing deeply personal wounds, but not in a way that felt chosen — more like they were leaking. It wasn’t the curated kind of vulnerability that’s praised on social media. This was reluctant, heavy, and unrelenting. It felt like they had no option but to be exposed.

It got me thinking about communal vulnerability — the kind that’s not necessarily personal, but collective. Not always chosen, but inherited. In communities where generational trauma, racial violence, and economic despair are woven into everyday life, vulnerability becomes less of a moment and more of a mode. A vibe. A survival rhythm.

But what happens when that communal pain becomes more than just shared? What happens when it starts disguising itself as purpose?

When Vulnerability Becomes Identity

In spaces marked by suffering, we learn that being vulnerable makes us legible. We’re heard more when we’re hurt. We’re affirmed more when we’re struggling. We bond over brokenness.

Over time, pain becomes proof that we belong.

Some people develop what I’ve come to see as aggressive vulnerability — not out of manipulation, but out of instinct. It’s the “don’t come for me, I’m already broken” posture. It’s pain held out like a badge of moral alignment.

And there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But left unchecked, it risks turning vulnerability into performance. And worse — into a kind of protective camouflage that keeps us from growth.

When Collective Pain Becomes a Personal Alibi

There’s a moment — especially in trauma-soaked communities — where shared pain starts subsidizing personal paralysis. I’ve seen people, including myself, wrap themselves in communal trauma like a weighted blanket. It feels justified. It feels righteous. But it can also feel... safe.

Let me explain.

Imagine someone who says they can’t work today because the news is covering another police shooting of a young Black man. Their son was once profiled. They’re triggered. That’s real. That’s valid. That’s worthy of care.

But now imagine this same cycle repeats — again and again — and begins to eclipse their own untended emotional needs, unresolved grief, and stalled development. Communal trauma becomes the easier language for their pain, even if it’s not the right one.

Over time, it turns into a kind of empathy-based excuse — a way to avoid showing up fully. It’s not ego in the typical sense. It’s mismanaged self-importance:

“If I feel this deeply, I must be good.”
“If I can’t act, it’s because the world is unjust.”
“If I’m undone, it’s because I care more than others.”

But what if — in some cases — that’s not true?
What if it’s just unprocessed pain looking for a container?

Recycled Pain and the Addiction to Crisis

In certain communities, expressing hope can feel more risky than expressing pain. Why? Because pain doesn’t disrupt the collective story. Hope does.

So we learn to recycle our pain — not to heal, but to stay relevant. To stay in it. We say we’re tired, but we don’t rest. We say we’re healing, but we don’t do the work. We say we’re triggered, but we don’t build tools for regulation.

Why? Because we’ve come to believe that trauma is the ticket to being taken seriously.

But surviving isn't the same as growing. And crisis isn't the same as clarity.

False Empathy at Work: When Trauma Leads the Meeting

These patterns don’t just live in therapy rooms or private journals. They show up at work. They sneak into meetings. They sit quietly behind Slack messages and missed deadlines.

In professional spaces — especially in DEI-informed or trauma-aware workplaces — there’s a growing emphasis on empathy. And rightly so. But here’s the hard truth: not all empathy is created equal. Some of it is projected. Some of it is performative. And some of it is just misdirected trauma wearing a leadership badge.

When we lead with unresolved communal pain:

• We may confuse emotional over-identification with true support.
• We may avoid accountability because we assume the person is “going through too much.”
• We may praise vulnerability in others without offering tools, structure, or follow-through.
• We may excuse our own withdrawal as righteous exhaustion.

And that leads to a workplace culture where pain becomes social capital — but action, structure, and boundaries are neglected.

False empathy says:

“Take all the time you need.”

True empathy says:

“I see you. I support you. Let’s figure out a path forward together.”

If we’re not careful, trauma-informed spaces can become trauma-dependent. And when that happens, our shared values become hostage to our shared pain.

So Where Do We Go from Here?

We need to tell the truth: Communal trauma is real, but it’s not always ours to hold. And even when it is, it doesn’t have to be the lens through which we see everything else.

We need a new framework. One where:

• Silence can be strength, not detachment
• Joy doesn’t have to be earned through suffering
• Healing isn’t proof of betrayal, but a sign of resilience
• And vulnerability is chosen, not assumed, expected, or performed

We have to be able to say:

“This hurts, but this isn’t mine.”
“I am moved by this, but I’m not undone by it.”
“I matter, even when I’m not bleeding.”

Because the real danger isn’t in being vulnerable — it’s in being stuck in a version of ourselves that only knows how to hurt.

Let’s not make trauma the price of admission for being human. Let’s not confuse empathy with erosion. And let’s never forget: healing is an act of resistance, too