I have written before about my father being sick. What I haven’t written much about is the empathy I feel watching him go through it — and how exhausting empathy can sometimes be.
Recently, I was sitting with my dad when my sister told him that the home health care person was there to “wash him.”
Even those words — wash him — stung a little.
My dad was a fiercely self-reliant man. He was never someone who wanted or expected other people to take care of him. Now, he needs help with things he had done for himself his entire life — and he has become remarkably open to receiving that help.
But that day, he said, “I don’t want to do that today.”
My sister reminded him that if he wanted to get stronger, there were things he needed to do every day. She has been there caring for him and helping him navigate a situation neither of them ever expected to be in.
As I watched the exchange, I felt embarrassed for my dad.
Not because he needed help.
I thought about him. About the man he has always been. A man accustomed to making his own decisions, taking care of himself and rarely needing anything from anyone. And I imagined what it must feel like for him to say he didn’t want to do something as personal as bathing that day and realize that the decision wasn’t entirely his anymore.
For a moment, the roles felt reversed. My sister was caring for our father in ways that our parents once cared for us.
My dad agreed, and off they went into the bathroom.
I don’t know whether he actually felt embarrassed. He didn’t say that he did.
That’s one of the complicated things about empathy.
Empathy asks us to try to understand another person’s experience from their perspective. We pay attention to who they are, what matters to them, what they have experienced and what they may be losing. We try to see the world through their eyes, even though we can never know with certainty exactly what they are feeling.
And sometimes, when you love someone deeply, that can hurt.
I feel it in other ways with my dad, too.
He hasn’t wanted to eat much. There is always a reason. Heartburn. A sore throat. A stomachache. Something doesn’t taste good.
It would be easy to hear those reasons individually and focus on solving each problem.
But when I look at my dad, I see how tired he is.
Everything takes energy. Getting out of bed takes energy. Walking across the room takes energy. Having a conversation takes energy. Eating takes energy.
It isn’t that he doesn’t want to get better.
He is exhausted. Sometimes there simply isn’t enough energy left for one more thing.
There are other pieces of his experience that I won’t share because they belong to him, not me. But they have made me think a lot about what it means to witness someone else’s suffering when you love them.
Interestingly, I rarely feel deeply sad when I think about the possibility of losing my father.
What makes me sad much more often is watching things be so difficult for him.
I look at this man who spent his life taking care of himself and rarely asking anyone for help, and I see someone who now accepts help and is genuinely grateful for it.
There is something both beautiful and heartbreaking about that.
I’m grateful that he has been able to accept the care he needs. But I also understand what that change means for a man who valued his independence for so many years.
And I feel that loss for him.
Empathy is usually talked about as something entirely positive. We want empathetic leaders, empathetic partners, empathetic friends and empathetic families.
And we should.
Empathy helps us see beyond behavior.
Instead of seeing someone who “won’t eat,” we might see someone who is exhausted.
Instead of seeing someone who is being difficult, we might see someone trying to hold onto a little control.
Instead of seeing a task that simply needs to be completed, we might recognize what that task represents to the person who suddenly needs help doing it.
Empathy makes us more compassionate.
But empathy can also be exhausting.
When you deeply love someone who is struggling, you don’t only witness what is happening to them. You try to understand what those experiences mean to them.
You notice the things that might hurt their pride.
You recognize the independence they are losing.
You see how hard they are trying when someone else might only see what they aren’t doing.
You feel the weight behind moments that might look completely ordinary to someone else.
And sometimes you carry that awareness with you long after the moment has passed.
I don’t want to stop feeling that deeply. My empathy helps me see my father as the person he has always been, not simply as someone who now needs care.
But I am also learning that empathy doesn’t require me to carry all of his suffering.
I can see it.
I can honor it.
I can respond to him with compassion and dignity.
I can remember the man inside the person who needs help today.
And I can love him without carrying every difficult thing he experiences as my own.
Maybe that is one of the hardest parts of empathy:
Learning how to walk beside someone in their pain without taking all of that pain home with you.