Several weeks ago at midnight, I was sitting in the bed, half awake, trying to help the baby and myself get back to sleep after the baby’s normal midnight waking. Ryan walked into the room and told me that some Ukrainian mothers were concerned enough about the Russian troops around the border that they decided to send their children to school the next day with placards declaring the child’s blood type.

For the next four hours I tossed and turned even as my stomach twisted into knots. No parent should be so concerned about a child’s safety as feeling a need to publicly announce that child’s blood type. I was upset that my husband should choose to share this gut-wrenching detail at a time I was trying to sleep and as I futilely sought rest, my mind thought about many times in my life that empathy resulted in emotional pain.

I have always been an empathic person to the point that it was hard as a child to eat the last serving of a particular food if I learned someone else had been hoping for it. As a teenager, I accompanied my parents to a class they taught about their surveying software. When it was time to break for lunch, we caravanned to a local restaurant and one gentleman was almost left behind to drive himself alone and that pained me. It was even worse once I started having children. Every news story I came across that involved a child played itself in my imagination over and over as an event that could have happened to my own child. I started avoiding the news. On social media, I would inadvertently be exposed to headlines and stories of tragic events that happened to children, some posts dramatizing the content even further. I hated being subjected to horrible news with no consent on my part. I started unfollowing friends’ posts, though it didn’t always help. One headline years ago (I don’t remember the source) was horrific and, coupled with mild childhood trauma from a violent movie I’d watched, left me literally sick to my stomach. It took years for the unwelcome memory to lose potency and remain only distasteful rather than horrific.

Empathy and sympathy are often used synonymously even though they are very different. Sympathy is feeling pity for someone else’s position and immediately moving on with life while empathy is understanding what the other person may be feeling (or at least trying to understand). One explanation can be found here. Individuals with high levels of empathy are at greater risk of secondary trauma when associating with and helping those who have experienced personal trauma.

Ironically, when I was working on my undergraduate degree, I briefly studied forensics. I love the idea of detective work and being able to analyze clues. I had also been intrigued with the criminal justice system. However, graduating in forensics would have meant taking classes in blood splatters and other morbid topics. I eventually graduated in psychology with a lot of classes focused on child development. I was fascinated with the idea of forensics, but I was a stay-at-home mother with no clear intention of working full-time and I wanted a major that would be relevant both at home and as a career backup should I need to enter the work force.

In spite of the downsides, empathy is a critical skill. It allows one to build friendships and effectively care for those in need. The adage “people don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care,” is absolutely true. When you imagine yourself in a difficult emotional situation, you don’t crave someone running over to fix all your problems. Instead you want someone who will listen and understand the feelings you’re experiencing. One of the worst feelings in the world is loneliness and it generally accompanies feelings of, “no one understands me or what I’m going through.” It may sound mean, but those who have experienced a lot of hardships are in a better position to help others who are also suffering because there is empathy. I’m not sure anyone wants to listen to an individual who seems like he or she has skated through life with little difficulty.

One of the primary beauties of Christianity is the belief that Jesus Christ fully understands every emotional and physical pain we might encounter. When I was younger, I always wondered how our Savior could possibly understand EVERYTHING that I would experience. For one thing, I was a girl and menstruation was painful and not relevant for a Man, no matter when He lived, or how powerful He might be. How could Jesus understand the things I experienced? What about childbirth or any other ailment specific to women? Did He break every bone in His body? Did He personally experience every painful disease that has ever existed? It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I finally understood. The night before His crucifixion, Jesus Christ entered the Garden of Gethsemane. He went alone. He had friends who adored him, but even they could not overcome the weaknesses of mortality and they slept while He went in without them. Knowing what lay before Him, even Jesus Christ experienced fear, asking His Father to “remove this cup from [Him],” but yet showing the courage to continue anyway if necessary (Luke 22:42). Jesus entered the Garden to not only take our sins upon Him and become our Advocate with the Father, but also to experience every feeling of loneliness, sorrow, regret, grief and heartbreak, along with every cramp, bone fracture, ache, nausea, stab, cut and any other pain that any person ever has or will ever experience. His divinity inherited from his Father, along with his mortality inherited from his mother, made it possible for Him to experience such anguish as well as the ability to withstand it. He did this so that He could fully empathize with and support (or “succor”) every human being who has ever lived (Alma 7:12).

Over the years it has become evident that managing empathic feelings is a balancing act. The hardest situation is hearing tragic news and being unable to do anything about it; one is subjected to the horror while feeling helpless at the same time. Limiting news is important, but I think it is also important to care for one’s self. Perhaps separate from empathy, I find it is too easy to want to ease the burdens of a neighbor, relative or child while sacrificing my own mental and physical health. I, for one, feel terribly guilty every time I say “no” to a request whether spoken, implied or simply imagined. The guilt is usually more difficult than the actual task, resulting in a desire to avoid saying “no” to avoid both potential social discomfort and the subsequent guilt. I don’t want to imagine that person in a difficult situation because I “didn’t want to be bothered.” I think it is crucial to work on developing boundaries and seeing yourself as someone who is just as important as those around you and that caring for one’s self in a healthy way makes it easier to care for those around you.

But the point of this post and this blog is not as an advice column. I’m not a mental health professional and what works for me may not work for you. The point of this post is that empathy is a beautiful thing, but it comes at a cost. A cost not to be avoided, but to be acknowledged and managed.

Many, though not all, of these thoughts flew through my mind during those hours of tossing and turning weeks ago. Heartache, fear, anger, and many memories took turns invading my consciousness. Eventually my mind was able to relax and I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, I checked the news and my frustration with Ryan was forgotten. Russia had invaded Ukraine.