The Hierarchy of Sympathy
Why Some Suffering Goes Viral — and Some Is Left to Rot in Silence
There are moments when personal experience collides with public events in a way that makes certain questions impossible to ignore. This past week has been one of those moments for me.
In Nova Scotia, a young boy was killed in a horrific dog attack. The loss is unimaginable. Within roughly 24 hours, a GoFundMe campaign created to support his mother raised over $100,000. As of this writing, that number has continued to grow.
That response makes sense. A child’s death is one of the few tragedies that cuts cleanly through politics, ideology, and disagreement. It is immediate. It is morally uncomplicated. It demands a response. I do not begrudge that family a single dollar, a single act of compassion, or a single expression of grief.
At the same time, something else became impossible for me to ignore.
I am also a father. I am also struggling. And I am still alive.
My own GoFundMe has been active for over a month. It has received $129 from two donors. Earlier this year, a different campaign remained online for nearly three months without receiving a single donation.
This essay is not about resentment. It is about visibility — and what our collective behaviour reveals about how we allocate empathy.
We often speak about tragedy and suffering as if they are the same thing, but they are not.
A tragedy is sudden. It has a clear beginning and an unmistakable rupture. Suffering, by contrast, is prolonged. It stretches across weeks, months, sometimes years. Tragedy commands attention; suffering requires endurance.
Our culture is highly responsive to tragedy. We rally, we donate, we share, we grieve. We are far less capable of staying present for suffering that unfolds slowly and without spectacle. Mental health struggles, domestic abuse, chronic instability, suicidal ideation — these do not fit neatly into headlines or fundraising narratives. They require patience, context, and sustained concern.
That is where empathy often breaks down.
Public compassion is not evenly distributed. It follows patterns, whether we like it or not. Some forms of pain are immediately legible and emotionally accessible. Others are complex, uncomfortable, and involve systems rather than singular events. When pain suggests long-term failure — of families, institutions, or social supports — people tend to disengage.
They do not argue. They do not deny. They simply look away.
This dynamic is particularly unforgiving for adult men.
There is an unspoken expectation that men, especially fathers, should absorb distress quietly. Strength is assumed. Endurance is mandatory. Vulnerability is tolerated only briefly, and only if it resolves itself quickly.
When men speak openly about prolonged mental health struggles, the response is rarely hostility. It is silent. Silence that communicates, intentionally or not, that this kind of pain is inconvenient, confusing, or better handled privately.
Over time, that silence does real harm.
Psychologists describe something called moral injury — the distress that arises when a person repeatedly experiences violations of their basic expectations of fairness, care, or recognition. It is not simply sadness. It is the erosion of trust in the idea that one’s suffering will matter to others.
Anger often emerges from that space. Not because someone has become cruel, but because grief has had nowhere to go for too long.
Let me be clear about something that matters.
This is not a competition of pain.
A mother who loses her child deserves immediate and overwhelming support. That truth stands on its own. At the same time, a struggling father deserves to be seen before his situation becomes catastrophic. These truths do not cancel each other out.
The problem is not generosity toward tragedy. The problem is the absence of care for suffering that is quieter, longer, and harder to metabolize emotionally.
If we only mobilize compassion after loss becomes irreversible, then empathy is no longer preventative. It is ceremonial.
We say we care about mental health, but often only when it presents itself neatly. We say we value fathers, but mostly when they are functional. We say we believe in community, but only when it does not demand sustained attention or discomfort.
That gap — between stated values and actual behaviour — is where people fall through.
Sometimes permanently.
I am writing this not to shame anyone, but to break a silence that feels increasingly dangerous.
If empathy only activates once suffering becomes viral or fatal, then we are failing upstream. If people must collapse publicly before they are taken seriously, then something in our moral framework is deeply broken.
And if you are someone reading this whose pain has gone largely unseen — especially if you are still here despite it — know this:
Your suffering does not need to be spectacular to be real. Your worth is not measured in donations, attention, or virality. And asking for help does not disqualify you from dignity.
Some of the most important stories never trend. They unfold quietly, in the margins, and decide whether someone survives.
That should matter more than it currently does.
Editor’s Note
Out of respect, I want to be clear about something.
This piece is not written to diminish the loss of a child or the grief of his family. What happened in Shelburne County is a profound tragedy, and the community’s response reflects genuine compassion.
Because this essay discusses public empathy and visibility, I believe it’s important to be transparent about the circumstances that prompted it. Below are links to both fundraising campaigns referenced in this article.
If you are able and inclined to help, please consider supporting the Shelburne family first.
GoFundMe for the Shelburne boy’s family:
https://lnkd.in/g9xZph3r
For those who have asked about my own situation, this is my ongoing campaign related to mental health, family stability, and recovery:
My GoFundMe:
https://lnkd.in/gAjNfVEt
No one is obligated to give. Reading, reflecting on, and sharing this conversation also matters.
Thank you for taking the time to engage thoughtfully with a difficult subject.
— Joshua