Suicidal Empathy

I’ve never been one to write about politics honestly, I’d rather talk about the best Thai food in NYC or the chaos of my meme coin portfolio. But lately, something’s been gnawing at me, something I’ve started calling “suicidal empathy.” It’s the tendency to care so much, to bend over for others, that you end up torching your own life in the process.

It’s about a pattern I’ve noticed, a way of thinking that’s creeping into how we deal with big, messy issues like immigration, homelessness, and at-risk populations.

You’ve probably seen it too. There’s this vibe, especially among some left-leaning circles, where empathy’s become the ultimate badge of honor. It’s not just about understanding someone else’s struggle, it’s about wearing it, carrying it, proving you feel it more than the next guy. If you don’t signal the “right” level of sensitivity you’re shunned. Labeled as cold or selfish. It’s like there’s a competition to care the hardest, and if you don’t play along, you’re viewed as evil.

Here’s where it gets tricky for me. I’m not saying empathy’s bad, far from it. I get choked up over a homeless man wearing shorts in the dead of winter as much as anyone. But there’s a line, right? A point where being overly empathetic starts to feel like self-sabotage.

I’ve started calling it suicidal empathy because it’s you’re so busy worrying about everyone else’s feelings that you forget your own stakes—your safety, your stability, your future. It’s all about the short-term optics: Look at me, I’m the good one, I care. Meanwhile, the long-term ripple effects, community strain, even personal burnout gets shoved under the rug until it’s too late.

Take immigration, for example. I’ve read gut-wrenching stories of people risking it all to cross borders, and it hits hard. But then I look at the flip side. There’s this loud chorus online, all these self-proclaimed empaths raging about opening every door, never saying no.

Yet here’s the irony, most wouldn’t dream of unlocking their own front door for a stranger, let alone dipping into their wallets to buy a meal or a coat for someone on the street. It’s all talk. Empathy as a performance, not a practice. Point that out, though, and the claws come out: What, you don’t care? Nah, I just see the disconnect. It’s not heartless to ask where the line is when the loudest voices won’t even step up themselves.

The smart ass in me wants to create a new measurement for this I’ll call it the “Cost of Empathy” (COE). What if we could put a number to what all this caring actually costs, versus what it delivers?

One formula could be: COE = (Time Spent Caring + Money Spent + Emotional Toll) ÷ (Tangible Help Given). So, if you’re posting Instagram stories sobbing *cough*Gomez*cough*, feeling wrecked about it, but not doing anything to help, your COE’s sky-high… lots of cost, zero payoff.

Or maybe: COE = (Resources Used ÷ Community Benefit) × Personal Risk. Say a town pours cash into shelters but crime spikes and property values plummet—high cost, shaky upside, risk piling up.

I’m quite terrible at math, but I’d love to see us deal with this shit out loud. It’s not about shutting down compassion; it’s about figuring out when it’s real and when it’s just noise, or worse, when it’s quietly sinking us.

I’m not here to say we should stop caring. I just think there’s a difference between empathy that lifts everyone up and empathy that drags you down with it. Suicidal empathy is when you’re so focused on being seen as the compassionate one that you stop seeing the fallout. It’s when you’re blind to the trade-offs, the way unchecked kindness can hollow out your own foundation.

I’ve felt it myself, saying yes too much, stretching too thin. Maybe it’s time we talk about this without shame. Caring’s good. Boundaries aren’t evil.