Paul Bloom’s book, Against Empathy, challenged a core belief of mine: that empathy is inherently good. He writes about how empathy, which feels so natural and kind, sometimes sends us down the wrong path.
Recently, meditation has brought me closer to the world around me. In moments of stillness, I feel in tune with the natural flow, sensing life unfolding nearby. I’ll notice a squirrel darting up a tree or feel a butterfly gently landing on my shoulder. These encounters reveal a hidden beauty in the world that I hadn’t noticed before.
One day, during a particularly quiet moment in the garden, I found myself watching an insect slowly chewing through a leaf, leaving behind a pattern almost like lace. It reminded me of the dying autumn leaves, those vibrant bursts of orange and red signaling the close of summer. I began empathizing with the insect, appreciating not just its role in nature but also the beautiful art it created. I even started to feel guilty about all of the murderous humans destroying them with pesticides.
But then I took a step back. Here I was, empathizing with a single insect, while our carefully cultivated garden—the plants we chose to nurture and display—was at stake. If I allowed insects to feast without restraint, the garden’s beauty would be destroyed. This, Bloom argues, is the core issue with empathy: it can cloud our judgment.
Empathy draws us into the experience of someone else—sometimes so strongly that we lose perspective. Bloom points out that empathy is inherently biased, drawing our attention to immediate, visible suffering. Empathy is like a spotlight: illuminating a single point while leaving the broader scene in darkness. This limited focus can lead us to make decisions that, while emotionally satisfying, ignore the bigger picture.
Consider disaster relief. When a hurricane hits, images of devastated families flood our screens, moving us to donate. Often, donations pour in for immediate needs—sometimes so much that aid groups struggle to distribute everything effectively. Meanwhile, the funds needed for long-term rebuilding, which are critical to a full recovery, receive less attention. Here, empathy pushes us to react to immediate suffering, but it can prevent us from addressing the true, sustained needs of a community.
Reflecting on the insect in my garden, I saw how empathy had drawn me in, focused on the tiny creature’s “right” to exist, even as that empathy threatened the larger harmony of the space. In nature, as in life, we manage a balance of competing needs. Empathy is powerful, but it can also lead us to focus on the individual and immediate rather than the whole.
Bloom suggests that while empathy moves us to act, we should make our decisions based on something he calls rational compassion. This approach encourages us to help others not out of an intense, immediate identification with their pain, but with a broader, more balanced perspective. Rational compassion, however, allows us to step back, consider the whole picture, and make decisions that align with a deeper sense of fairness and the greater good. By grounding our actions in rational compassion, Bloom argues, we can make the right long-term decisions, not just the ones that feel good at the time.
Empathy is a beautiful part of what makes us human, but like any powerful tool, it has its limits. If we let empathy dictate our choices, we risk losing sight of the bigger picture. We may care deeply for each leaf-chewing insect but neglect the health of the garden as a whole. Sometimes, wisdom lies in stepping back, seeing the larger context, and making decisions that honor not just the one, but the entire ecosystem.
When empathy pulls us too deeply into one moment or one need, we start to lose sight of the bigger picture—the careful balance that holds everything together. By zeroing in on the suffering of one small part, we risk overlooking the health of the whole. This kind of unchecked empathy can lead us down a path of well-meaning compromises that slowly unravel the things we care about. Piece by piece, we give in to every emotional impulse, and before we know it, we’ve chipped away at the very things we set out to protect. This, as they say, is why we can’t have nice things.
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