the burden of empathy in the digital age

personal reflection — june. 19. 2025

The digital age has become a boiling pot of chaos and destruction. Growing up during a time of rapid technological advancement, I’ve witnessed technology transform from a tool into the backbone of social existence. Yet my own childhood was different. Granted, a huge part of my development stages weren’t as involved with technology. Between the ages of one and eighteen, I was raised to prioritize the physical world over screens. Of course, I still had exposure to it, having different versions of entertainment. Playing online games on the family computer, renting movies from video stores, or watching weekly episodes of my favorite shows after school. Still, I wasn’t allowed to disappear into a screen for hours.

Even as a child, I understood the joy screens could bring, but I also craved the tangible world. My siblings and I would create elaborate scenarios with our Barbies, directing our own makeshift movies with plastic toys. Thanks to my father’s insistence on limiting digital exposure, I grew up with a rare, well-rounded childhood.

But as technology became inseparable from daily life, stepping away grew harder. By young adulthood, a phone wasn’t just for calls—it was necessary for modern survival. I needed it for communication, for assignments, for navigating the world. As a curious kid, I plunged into the internet’s depths, eager to learn everything. At first, it was thrilling: I devoured articles about maggot cheese in rural Europe, documentaries about serial killers, and explainer videos on geopolitics. The more I accessed, the more the world’s fractures became visible. It felt like I was becoming sentient, like gaining consciousness.

Then came social media. Doomscrolling.

It was inevitable. Anyone with a smartphone in this generation has fallen prey to the fast-media era—even my grandparents, who joined the digital world decades after I did. At first, I resisted. Still trying to proratise the physical world and social interaction, while mediating digital media. Now, I’m on social media throughout my day: scrolling news, watching videos, and messaging friends. It’s muscle memory now: pick up my phone, check headlines, numb myself with memes, repeat. Some days, I “spice it up” with YouTube deep dives or biology articles, but the result is the same: I’m staring at a screen, losing myself in the digital void.

I’ve tried to limit my exposure, but it’s agonizing. Yes, I have free will. Yes, I have self-control. But when society demands your life revolve around technology, your brain rewires itself. Once, phones were for missed calls from Mom. Now, they’re for keeping up with trends, news, the endless churn of crisis. It’s a vicious cycle that erodes reality and self-awareness. At twenty-three, I’m already grappling with identity crises, my career just beginning as the world burns. And with one of the worst presidents in U.S. history fueling the flames, it’s all become unbearable.

The ICE raids in California and the hateful rhetoric against my community have compounded this despair. My people are called “invaders,” “criminals,” reduced to political talking points. The misinformation is staggering. Immigrants built this country—especially in states like California and Texas—yet the system is rigged against them. Even Mexican-Americans have internalized this hatred, betraying their own roots. The cruelty is deliberate: families torn apart, people snatched off the streets and thrown into inhumane detention centers, prisoners shuffled between facilities so loved ones can’t find them. This isn’t justice—it’s corruption.

As an empath, I feel this violence viscerally. Watching videos of sobbing children, hearing stories of racial profiling, I carry the weight in my chest. It’s not just fear for my own family and friends—it’s grief for my entire community.

And now, birthright citizenship is under attack. This isn’t just unconstitutional—it’s a direct assault on my identity. As a child of immigrants, I straddle two cultures: American and Mexican. The racism against Hispanics isn’t new, even being able to reference a case that happened at my high school, the Mendez v. Westminster case, which desegregated California schools in 1946, but the vitriol has escalated. I’m hyper-sexualized, stereotyped, and judged before I speak. My language is politicized; my love for my culture is mocked. Though I’ve built a bubble of like-minded people, the outside world’s hatred seeps in. When I hear other Latino voices share their pain, I see myself in them. Their suffering becomes mine. So, having to see it all on the news or social media has caused a lot of emotional distress.

This sixth sense, this ability to absorb others’ emotions, has left my mental health in ruins. I journal. I meditate. I try to focus on joy. But four months into Trump’s presidency, I’m already exhausted.

Reflecting on these events doesn’t help much either; it just reminds me of historical events and seeing the chilling parallels. The Nazi regime didn’t start with gas chambers—it started with dehumanizing rhetoric, with raids, with normalized cruelty. Seeing history reflected in my own reality, my own generation, fills me with concern. I scroll through headlines, desperate for hope, but the discourse only confirms my fears. In a way, it feels necessary for me to be online and keep up with the news. Staying informed feels like a civic duty, but it’s also self-preservation; my future is unknown.

And yet, I know my privilege. Kids being starved in Gaza, communities being destroyed in Ukraine, women being abused in Congo, and beyond suffer far worse. Still, their pain resonates with me, a weird paradox of empathy. Their oppression mirrors my community’s. Their helplessness reflects mine. All because a handful of insecure, powerful men, devoid of empathy, play god with human lives. Let alone the devastation to the ecosystem and the health of our planet.

I don’t know what the future holds. The threats of World War III feel so close, it's reachable. The earth groans under greed. I want to build, create, live—not fight a war I didn’t start. The only solace is community: the people beside me, the love we share, the resistance we nurture. Without that, I’d already have spiraled into the abyss.