Empathy as Gravity

When I was going through cancer treatment in 2010, something unexpected happened: my friends started pulling away. Not out of malice, but out of discomfort. They didn’t know how to talk to me. They felt like their lives, school stress, dating problems, work complaints, suddenly didn’t “measure up.” One even told me, “I didn’t want to bother you with my stuff. It felt silly compared to what you’re going through.”

That’s when I started thinking of people as planets.

Each of us has our own gravitational pull, shaped by our history, our body, our context, the narratives we currently hold, the patterns we currently cycle. When we look at someone else struggling, it can be tempting to judge from a distance: “That doesn’t look heavy. Why are they having such a hard time?” But that’s the thing, you’re observing it from your own orbit. If you were to actually land on their planet, you’d feel their gravity. You’d try to lift what they’re lifting, and suddenly, it wouldn’t feel so light.

Empathy begins when we stop comparing weight and start respecting gravity. What’s easy for you might flatten someone else. What’s crushing you might be effortless to them. The point isn’t to rank pain. It’s to recognize that each person’s experience carries weight, real, undeniable, and shaped by where they’re standing.

Releasing a narrative or breaking a pattern means defying the gravitational pull of your own planet. And that takes effort. That’s why growth is never as simple as it looks from the outside.

You’re not just making a new choice, you’re working against momentum that’s been building for years. Maybe even generations. You’re challenging the core beliefs that once kept you safe. You’re loosening your grip on a version of yourself that, even if painful, has been familiar. Predictable. Known.

And people might not see that. They might look at your shift, leaving a job, saying no, asking for help, ending a relationship, and think, “What’s the big deal?” But they’re not feeling the gravity you’re working against. They’re not inside your orbit. You are.

This is why compassion is essential, not just for others, but for yourself. Growth isn’t always dramatic. Often, it’s quiet. Subtle. Measured in pauses taken instead of reactions. In patterns interrupted mid-cycle. In the weight you no longer pick up.

This is the heart of integration. Not escaping your planet, but changing how you move on it. Not bypassing gravity, but learning how to work with it, so that over time, what once pulled you down starts to lose its hold.

And it all starts with honoring the weight you carry, without shame or comparison. Just truth. Just gravity.