I have observed that there's a growing habit of calling something ''empathy'' when it's actually substitution. So here is my take. Let's get uncomfortable.
The word ''empathy'' means:
- I understand the structure of your pain. I can sit with it without needing to own it.
Which is actually enough, as we are all different people with different experiences. However, more often, what happens is:
- I feel something about your pain, therefore I become your voice.
That's not empathy. That's appropriation of moral authority. And the most telling mistake is simple:
The ''them'' you keep speaking for are humans.
They are not abstract.
They are not voiceless by default.
They are not waiting for a translator.
There is a difference between:
Speaking for someone who cannot (a child, an unconscious patient, someone forcibly silenced)
and
Speaking over someone who is capable but inconvenient.
Collapsing those two is not justice. It's paternalism with a better font.
''I'm just amplifying their voice'' is a comforting lie people love to tell themselves. BUT, amplification means:
-making space
-removing barriers
-protecting platforms
It does not mean:
-rephrasing someone's anger into something more palatable
-deciding which emotions are acceptable
-freezing living people into permanent victims so you can remain the hero
Helping a voice be heard is not the same thing as becoming the voice.
Now, this is where things get really uncomfortable, so let's not look away.
For a lot of people, albeit unconsciously, morality is no longer about reducing harm. It's about maintaining an identity. This is when the question quietly shifts from:
-''Is this helping?''
to
-''Does this prove I'm a good person?''
Once morality becomes a mirror instead of a tool, everything distorts.
Anger becomes performative.
Nuance becomes suspicious.
Restraint becomes betrayal.
And silence is treated like moral death.
The appeal is obvious. Speaking for others is tempting after all, because it offers instant gratification;
a clear villain,
a clear victim,
a clear hero,
and the hero is never the person being spoken over,
it's the speaker.
That's the loop:
- I feel outrage →
- My outrage proves my goodness →
- Anyone who disagrees threatens my moral self-image →
At that point, the actual people affected become secondary.
Does this mean I'm refusing empathy? Perhaps. But I do not believe so.
I'm not refusing empathy.
I'm refusing to turn other people's pain into my performance.
I will stand with you,
I will protect space for your voice,
but I will not wear your anger like a costume.
Because;
not all pain wants an interpreter,
not all anger needs a narrator,
and not every injustice requires us to be the loudest in the room.
Sometimes the most respectful position is simply knowing where your voice ends, and where another person's must begin.
and the questions throw me reverse logic with mango discounts, coin ratios, and UK currency logic with decimals.
my surroundings? my dad watching a tv series at full volume next to me
my brain? in rage
my soul? trying to exit the building
like bruhhh…
when I’m trying to test my math,
but they’re actually testing my ability to maintain psychological stability
during ✨fruit-based capitalism✨ in British currency.
#student life #i barked at my environment #they are gonna make me hate mango # reverse percent trauma #pls send earplugs and snacks #academic meltdown with zero aesthetic
Most of us do not grow up learning what love is.
We learn to earn it.
And that, is a different story.
In my home, love came softly — but never freely.
Like a fragile piece of artwork that needed gentle care.
It came when I was quiet.
When I was clever.
When I calmed the storm I was born into.
They called me a miracle, because I didn’t cry much — even as a baby.
They told me I was born to save the family.
And I believed them.
Not because I understood what that meant, but because they said it with pride.
With relief.
As if being born to fix something broken was a gift.
As if silence, stillness, composure, obedience were things to admire — not symptoms to grieve.
No one asked why the baby never cried.
They were too busy clapping.
Years later, I live in a home with two small dogs.
One has been with me for nearly half my life.
The other came more recently, from a house that only knew neglect and punishment.
The older one is quiet. “Smart.” Attentive.
He tiptoes around my father like a soldier who remembers his first day in the field:
a midnight rage, a mess on the floor, the kind of fear that never fully leaves the body.
For over a decade, he’s been “the good one.”
Quiet. Obedient. Predictable.
Everyone praised him for it.
They never looked twice at how tense his small body was.
The younger one… didn’t come into this family with fear.
Not exactly.
He came in loud. Sharp. All bark and bite.
He wasn’t trained for silence — and he didn’t care if you wanted it.
He didn’t ask softly. He demanded.
He was called “the bad one” from the start.
But not by me.
I remember one night clearly.
My mother had just come home — drained, and irritable.
She collapsed onto the couch, trying to sink into stillness.
The younger dog trotted up to her immediately, tail wagging, making noise. Wanting attention after a long day apart.
She didn’t see longing.
She saw chaos.
And she snapped. Loud. Sharp. Angry.
Not fully at him — but at me.
"Shut him up."
But I didn’t.
I picked him up, brought him into my lap where I was working, and kissed him on the forehead.
He stopped barking.
Just like that.
He wasn’t being “difficult.”
He just didn’t know how to ask gently.
He never learned how to wrap need in sweetness to make it more acceptable.
When my mother saw us — now quietly breathing in sync — she scoffed:
"Look at them acting like little angels. As if they’re not little demons."
No.
They were never demons.
They just didn’t fit into a version of love that demanded obedience before tenderness.
Neither did I.
When I was a child, I bit back in different ways.
Neither with teeth, nor with barks.
But with thoughts I wasn’t supposed to think.
Questions I wasn’t supposed to ask.
I was loved most when I was easiest to look at.
But never truly held when I was real.
And my dogs… they’re not just pets to me.
They are my mirrors.
One carries the ghost of who I was — gentle, fearful, always scanning the room for danger.
The other carries who I’m becoming — messy, reactive, full of sound, full of self.
I never punished either of them for their noise.
Even when they bite me.
I let them.
And then, seconds later, I let them sleep on my lap — teeth tucked away, breath soft against my skin.
not sure if this is a blog or a cry for help. (probably both lmao)
either way, here we are.
this blog will contain:
- ✎ Essays that accidentally become therapy
- 🧠 Thoughts so tangled they’re basically macrame
- 🌪️ Mental weather updates (currently: fog with a chance of breakdown)
- 🧃 Soft aesthetics and sharp truths
- 📂 Possibly unhinged commissions later
i write things. sometimes with purpose. sometimes out of spite (mostly this). sometimes because if i don’t, my brain will open 47 tabs and scream in Latin.
follow for more ✨questionable stability✨ and ✨genuinely heartfelt chaos✨.
#tumblr is my brain’s new side quest
#freelance writer but make it ✧ emotionally unwell ✧
#existential memes and storytime
#dark academia but i trip on the stairs
#soft aesthetics meet mental spiral
#writing to cope, overthink, and overachieve
#commission info soon if i survive
#student life ft. ghost of motivation
#this is a spellbook but i forgot what i was casting
#creative writing or creative meltdown?
#tag spam is free therapy
#lowkey blogging like it’s 2015
#hi i’m veya and i spiral internally like it’s a full-time job
#who says only ai uses em dashes???
#this post is brought to you by ‘anyway—’
#soft panic in lowercase
#i want to be a forest but i am currently a traffic cone
#brain said: speak. soul said: what if we wrote your whole autobiography down instead :)
#can i be both a scholar and a cryptid? asking for a friend
