Fuck Empathy
Hannah Marks

I want to scream it. Yes — seriously. Fuck empathy.

I’ve built my career on empathy. I manage volunteer programs that support families through some of the darkest chapters of their lives — palliative care, children’s palliative care, cancer journeys, disability, even people caught in the court system. Empathy has been my superpower, the thing that connects me to others, makes me good at what I do.

And not just good — it makes me a protector. I train volunteers to step into emotionally charged spaces with care, resilience, and boundaries. I help them support others without losing themselves. I guide, mentor, and hold emotional integrity as a pillar of the work. I make sure they’re not just doing the work — but surviving it. Which means I absorb even more, carry even more, so that they don’t have to.

But in my personal life?

Empathy can be a curse.

A weight.

A silent, invisible flood that no one sees — but I feel all the time.

I’m what people call an empath. A highly sensitive person. Probably someone with undiagnosed ADHD too. That cocktail means my nervous system is a finely tuned emotional radar, constantly scanning, absorbing, responding — often before anyone else realises there’s something to feel. I sense pain before it’s spoken. I hold grief that’s not mine. I notice the tension in a room and carry it home in my mind and body.

And honestly, fuck empathy.

It hit me — again — at a recent funeral. Not just the loss, but the unspoken weight of the room. But this time, it wasn’t a distant situation I was supporting professionally. It was personal. It was a dear friend. My grief. My sadness.

I watched his wife — another dear friend — eulogise him with grace and devastation intertwined. As she spoke, I didn’t just hear her words. I felt the grief ravaging her voice. I felt the restraint, the composure barely held together. I felt the daughters’ strength as they stood up to speak about the magnificence of their father — and I felt the quake beneath it, the strain in their lungs as they pushed through tears to honour him.

When it was over, I felt their relief like it was my own. That trembling, shell-shocked it’s-done-now exhale. The kind of release only grief can summon.

In our conversations, she said something I will never forget:
“I’m so grateful for the cancer diagnosis.”

Not because it was easy. But because it gave them time. Time to say what needed to be said. Time to feel everything while he was still alive. Time to celebrate him, with him. To let him know how much he meant, rather than waiting until he couldn’t hear it. Not just for the family — for all of us close to him. We were able to tell him what he meant to us, while he was still here — not just speak of him in the past tense at his funeral.

It was beautiful.

Human.

Sacred.

And still — at the end of that day, recounting it all to my partner, I didn’t feel peace. I felt rage. And I wanted to scream:

Fuck empathy.

I don’t want to feel the feelings of everyone.

I don’t want to be ravaged by the grief of the widow, the daughters, the friends, the extended family — and still have to hold space for my own adult child’s grief needs.

I just want to feel my own loss — and that’s it.

I want to stand on a beach, stare out at the water, and feel nothing for anyone.

I want to be empty — even just for a moment.

Because this kind of empathy isn’t soft and poetic.

It’s relentless.

It runs too deep.

And it’s too much.

We’re told that empathy is beautiful. Feminine. Powerful. Healing.
But what we’re not told: empathy without boundaries will ruin you.
It will steal your sleep, hijack your nervous system, and leave you hollow from the inside out.

Empathy doesn’t always lead to connection. Sometimes it leads to codependency.
Empathy doesn’t always drive action. Sometimes it causes paralysis.
Empathy doesn’t always heal. Sometimes it drains.

So yes — fuck empathy.

What I’ve Learnt (the Hard Way)

I’ve learnt to set limits. To feel without absorbing. To support without self-sacrificing.

To separate emotions.

I’ve learnt to ask myself: Is this mine to carry?

I’ve learnt that feeling everything isn’t the same as helping.

Sometimes, it’s the thing that gets in the way.

And I’ve learnt that compassion — rooted in action, not just emotion — is more sustainable than pure empathy.

I still care, fiercely.

But I’m done letting my empathy be a wrecking ball inside my own life.

Resonate much?

Have you ever left a room buzzing with someone else’s pain, have you cried yourself empty and still couldn’t sleep, have you ever hated your sensitivity even as it made you good at what you do — I see you.

We are not broken.

We are not selfish for needing space.

We are not weak for saying, “enough, I can’t hold this right now.”

So yes — fuck empathy.
Not because we don’t care,
But because we care so damn much we’re drowning in it.
And because sometimes, we just need to stop.

We need to go to the beach.
To stare at the water.
To feel nothing for anyone — just for a while.

Because that, too, is survival.
That, too, is sacred.

So yes, empathy is both my superpower and my biggest curse – fuck it.

– Hannah Marks is part of the writing team at High Sensitivity Australia.