Empathy Isn't Special—It's What We've Forgotten How to Do

I'm Not Special—I'm Just Doing What Humans Are Supposed to Do

Recently, someone told me that I was special.

They said it was because of my empathy, because of how much I care about people, and because of the work I do to help others. While I appreciated the compliment, I found myself disagreeing.

I don't think I'm special.

I think helping each other is what humanity is supposed to be about.

Somewhere along the way, we began treating compassion as something extraordinary rather than something fundamental. We celebrate kindness as if it's rare. We praise empathy as if it's a unique gift. But I don't believe these things should make someone exceptional. I believe they should make someone human.

The reality is that the world often feels increasingly individualistic. We are encouraged to focus on our own success, our own happiness, our own problems. In the process, we sometimes forget that every person we encounter is carrying burdens we cannot see. Every person is fighting battles we know nothing about.

Maybe empathy feels special today because selfishness has become so common.

The truth is, I am a deeply empathetic person. I feel other people's pain intensely. I care about what happens to them. I want to understand their experiences and help them find their way through difficult moments.

Interestingly, this level of empathy is not uncommon among people with bipolar disorder. Many of us experience emotions deeply and acutely. While bipolar disorder brings significant challenges, it can also create a profound sensitivity to the emotional experiences of others.

For me, that sensitivity has shaped my life's work.

I work in the mental health field through psychotherapy and research. Every day, I have the privilege of helping people navigate some of the most difficult moments of their lives. Through research, I hope to contribute to a future where children with bipolar disorder receive better care, earlier intervention, and greater understanding than previous generations did.

This work is deeply personal.

I know what it feels like to hurt.

As a child and adolescent, I experienced mental pain that often felt overwhelming and isolating. I know what it is like to feel misunderstood. I know what it is like to wonder if anyone truly sees what you're going through.

Those experiences never left me. They became part of who I am.

Because of that, I cannot look away when I see someone suffering. I cannot pretend not to notice when someone is struggling. I cannot ignore the child, teenager, or adult who feels alone in their pain.

That doesn't mean I can fix everything.

One of the hardest lessons in mental health is learning that we cannot take another person's pain away. No amount of caring can erase someone's trauma, depression, anxiety, grief, or bipolar disorder. We cannot walk their path for them.

But we can walk beside them.

We can listen.

We can validate.

We can show up.

We can remind them that they do not have to face their struggles in isolation.

Sometimes that is more powerful than any solution.

When I sit with someone in therapy, I am not there to rescue them. I am there to accompany them. When I conduct research, I am not trying to create perfection. I am trying to create hope. When I advocate for children with bipolar disorder, I am not promising a world without suffering. I am fighting for a world where fewer children have to suffer alone.

If there is anything special about that, it is not because I am unique.

It is because I have chosen not to forget what pain feels like.

My experiences taught me that people need people. Healing often begins when someone feels seen, heard, and understood. The greatest gift we can offer one another is not the promise of a perfect life, but the reassurance that no one has to endure life's hardships in complete isolation.

So no, I don't think I'm special.

I think I'm simply trying to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger.

And I believe the world would be a better place if more of us did the same.