These days, it’s hard not to know what’s going on. With 24/7 coverage of global events, the internet lets us know about major news almost instantly. Air strikes in Iran, Luka Dončic being traded to the Lakers, the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade. We are overloaded with a cascade of information that keeps us both well-informed and anxiously aware.
I scroll through Instagram Reels in the mornings at breakfast and can never expect what’s next. An edit of a show my friend’s been obsessed with, a book review and a plea for help from someone who’s tried everything to get people to donate. And, like anyone, I stop.
I leave a like and open the comments. I “water a few plants” and share the video with five friends. I watch the video three times, then three more because it feels like the least that I can do. And that’s true. I can’t always afford to donate. I can’t drop my classes and move halfway across the world to help, no matter how badly I want to. All I can do is watch from my screen and press a few buttons, then convince myself that I’ve done enough. A few reels later, the same thing happens again.
Activism has changed in the last few decades. Physical protests have become less common, eclipsed by electronically signed petitions and tagging government accounts. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing: it’s easier to reach 200 people by posting a story than it is stopping them on the street. But is this truly advocating? Is posting a black square truly a statement if it’s a societal expectation? If there’s no motivation to do so besides the fact that everyone else is? When does activism become performative, and how can we both advocate for others while taking care of ourselves?
Compassion fatigue is a relatively new term, originally coined by nurse Carla Joinson in 1992 to describe the exhaustion that medical professionals can face as a result of constantly caring for people who are suffering. In doing so, those caretakers can neglect their own emotional and physical health, leading to a negative impact on everyone involved. But as the world grows more interconnected, and tragedies from nearly everywhere can be seen by anyone with internet access, it’s taken on a new meaning. It’s now used to describe exhaustion rooted in empathy, an acknowledgement of the privilege of being able to watch, and the guilt that comes with only being able to do so much. Reposting infographics doesn’t solve systemic problems. Sharing videos of violence won’t stop it in real time. Giving to GoFundMes doesn’t erase the fact that it shouldn’t be necessary to crowdfund for a life-saving medical procedure. But this is the world that we live in. And that justification has to suffice.
It is human nature to care about others. To cry when others cry, to smile when we’re smiled at. We’re not supposed to look at each other in pain and be able to do nothing. Our first instinct is always to help because community is ingrained within us. But when does it become too much? Social media exposes us to problems that are physically impossible for us to solve and infeasible for us to help with. Sharing a link can feel performative, like you don’t really care beyond surface level. It’s a complicated and emotionally draining moral battle that nobody signs up for when just trying to scroll.
Yet when fires ignite and villages flood, the first thing we do is look for links to bring awareness. There’s no right or wrong answer, and definitely no easy one. For now, we can only hope that it’s enough.
