Empathy and Compassion – Two Faces of Being Human

There is something I have been reflecting on for a long time—both as a professional and as a human being moving through life:

We often speak about empathy and compassion as if they are the same thing.
But they are not.

And the difference matters more than we might think.

Over the years, in my work within child welfare, I have met many people in pain—children, parents, families. I have felt with them. Sometimes deeply. Sometimes almost too deeply.

And yet, I have come to understand this:
Feeling with someone is not the same as helping them.

This is where the distinction between empathy and compassion begins to take shape.

Two hands

I have held hands like this before.

Not as a professional.

Not as a thinker.

But as a son.

When illness entered our lives, it did not knock.

It stayed.

It changed the rhythm of everything.

Hands that once carried me

became hands I had to hold.

When We Feel With – The Power and Limits of Empathy

Empathy is, at its core, a kind of resonance.

You see someone cry—and something in you responds.
You hear a story—and you recognize something of your own life in it.

It is immediate. Human. Necessary.

Philosophers like Edmund Husserl and Maurice Merleau-Ponty remind us that empathy is not just a mental exercise. It is something lived through the body. A way of being open to the other as a subject, not an object.

In this sense, empathy is a doorway.
It allows us to step into another person’s world—if only for a moment.

But there is also something fragile here.

I have seen how empathy can overwhelm.
How it can blur the boundaries between “your pain” and “my pain.”
How it can leave professionals exhausted—and people feeling helpless.

Empathy alone does not always guide us.
Sometimes, it simply pulls us under.

When We Act – The Quiet Strength of Compassion

Compassion is something different.

It begins where empathy often stops.

Compassion is not only about feeling—it is about movement.
A turning toward the other with a wish to relieve suffering.

It says:
I see your pain.
And I will not turn away.

In many ways, compassion is more demanding than empathy.
It asks something of us.

In Buddhist philosophy, compassion is seen as a fundamental virtue. Not because it feels good—but because it transforms how we meet suffering.

And in the Western tradition, thinkers like Aristotle described something similar through the concept of eleos—a response that can move us toward moral action.

This is where compassion becomes ethical.
It carries responsibility.

A Philosophical Reflection – Understanding Is Not Enough

This distinction has followed me into philosophy.

Empathy helps us understand.
Compassion helps us respond.

From a phenomenological perspective, empathy opens the world of the other to us. But it does not tell us what to do. That step belongs to compassion.

And this is where practical philosophy becomes real—not something abstract, but something lived.

In classrooms.
In hospital rooms.
In difficult conversations between people who struggle to understand each other.

We often believe that understanding is enough.

It is not.

In Practice – Where It Truly Matters

In my own field, this distinction is not theoretical.

A teacher may understand a struggling student—but without compassion, nothing changes.
A healthcare worker may recognize a patient’s pain—but without compassion, care becomes mechanical.
A society may understand inequality—but without compassion, justice remains distant.

Empathy creates connection.
Compassion creates change.

A Necessary Question – Can Compassion Go Too Far?

And yet, even compassion must be handled with care.

There is a quiet danger here.

Can compassion become a form of control?
A kind of “kindness” that overrides the other person’s autonomy?

The philosopher Martha Nussbaum reminds us that compassion must always be balanced with respect. Without that, it risks becoming paternalistic.

This is a difficult balance.

To care—without taking over.
To help—without diminishing the other.

Closing Reflection – Holding Both

If I were to put it simply, I would say this:

Empathy lets us feel the world of the other.
Compassion asks us what we will do with what we feel.

One without the other is incomplete.

Empathy without compassion can become passive—even paralyzing.
Compassion without empathy can become blind—even harsh.

But together, they form something deeply human.
A way of being in the world that holds both understanding and responsibility.

And perhaps this is where practical philosophy truly begins:

Not in what we know—
but in how we meet each other.

There is something I have learned about empathy through this.

Something that does not fit easily into definitions.

I have been told—more than once—that people like me, with an autism diagnosis, struggle with empathy.
That we do not feel what others feel.

But that is not my experience.

Sometimes I feel too much.
Sometimes another person’s pain does not stay “theirs.”
It moves into my body.
It becomes something I carry.

And yet, there is something I do not always understand.

So I ask: "How are you?"

And I have learned that this question can open a door.

Because empathy is not always about knowing.

Sometimes, it is about being willing to not know—and still stay.

To sit beside.
To listen.
To hold a hand.

Maybe this is what compassion looks like in practice:

Not perfect understanding.
Not the right words.

But presence.

A hand that does not withdraw.
A question that makes space.
A human being willing to remain.

I am still learning this.

That I do not need to read everything
to care deeply.

That asking is not a weakness.
It is a way of meeting the other.

And sometimes,
that is enough.

Here are some references for further reading:

Empathy, Compassion & Psychology

Batson, C. D. (2011). Altruism in humans. Oxford University Press.

Bloom, P. (2016). Against empathy: The case for rational compassion. Ecco.

Goetz, J. L., Keltner, D., & Simon-Thomas, E. (2010). Compassion: An evolutionary analysis and empirical review. Psychological Bulletin, 136(3), 351–374.

Singer, T., & Klimecki, O. M. (2014). Empathy and compassion. Current Biology, 24(18), R875–R878.

Phenomenology (your philosophical backbone)

Edmund Husserl (1989). Ideas pertaining to a pure phenomenology and to a phenomenological philosophy (Second Book). Kluwer.

Maurice Merleau-Ponty (1962). Phenomenology of perception. Routledge.

Zahavi, D. (2014). Self and other: Exploring subjectivity, empathy, and shame. Oxford University Press.

Ethics and Compassion

Martha Nussbaum (2001). Upheavals of thought: The intelligence of emotions. Cambridge University Press.

Aristotle (2009). Rhetoric (Book II, on eleos). Oxford University Press.

Dalai Lama. (1995). The power of compassion. HarperCollins.

Autism, Empathy & Misunderstanding

Baron-Cohen, S. (2011). Zero degrees of empathy. Penguin.

Milton, D. (2012). On the ontological status of autism: The ‘double empathy problem’. Disability & Society, 27(6), 883–887.

Hobson, R. P. (2002). The cradle of thought. Oxford University Press.

Practical Philosophy / Applied Context

Noddings, N. (2013). Caring: A relational approach to ethics and moral education. University of California Press.

Vetlesen, A. J. (1994). Perception, empathy, and judgment: An inquiry into the preconditions of moral performance. Penn State Press.

Optional (Nordic / Norwegian context)

Blystad, M. H., & Grøgaard, S. C. (2024). Empatiens mange ansikter. Tidsskrift for Norsk Psykologforening.

The text is mine, and Open AI/ChatGPT has made the illustration in conversation with me.

Beyond Punishment: Responsibility, Understanding and the Human Encounter

Beyond Punishment: Responsibility, Understanding and the Human Encounter

Opening: 

Over the years. I have sat with many families searching for ways to handle what feels unmanageable. Again and again, the same pattern emerges: When things become difficult, punishment enters the picture. Not always out of cruelty - but out of desperation. And yet, the outcome are rarly what we hoped for.This is where both experience and philosophy begin to point in the same direction. 

I recently read a research article in Science on punishment and cooperation. A familiar question: what makes people contribute to the common good? The answer seems obvious: punish those who don’t.But it isn’t. The research shows something more complex—perhaps even unsettling. Punishment sometimes works. Sometimes it doesn’t. And in certain situations, it makes things worse. That was when the thought returned to me: This is not new. This is Michel Foucault.

Paul-Michel Foucault 1929-1984. Photo from Wikipedia

The Question Behind the Question

In Discipline and Punish, Foucault describes how punishment has shifted over time.

From the visible punishment of the bodyto the invisible shaping of the person.

His insight is both simple and unsettling: Punishment is not primarily about responding to wrongdoing.It is about shaping human beings. And perhaps this is where we must begin. Because the research does not simply tell us that punishment “fails.” It tells us that the question itself may be too narrow.

We ask: Does punishment change behavior? But the deeper question is: What kind of human being are we trying to form?

Understanding Before Control

One of the most striking findings in the research is this: Communication works better than punishment.

At first glance, this may seem almost naïve. But it points toward something fundamental. When people are allowed to speak and to listen:

• meaning is negotiated
• perspectives are shared
• relationships begin to form

Here we move into the philosophical territory of Hans-Georg Gadamer. For Gadamer, understanding is not something we “apply” to another person. It is something that happens between us. Understanding is not control. It is participation. It requires that we risk something of ourselves—our assumptions, our certainty—in order to meet the other.

Punishment does not ask for this risk. It establishes distance. It produces compliance, perhaps. But not understanding. And without understanding, something essential is missing.

Responsibility Cannot Be Forced

This brings us to responsibility. Punishment often assumes that responsibility can be imposed from the outside. That if the consequences are strong enough, the right behavior will follow. But lived experience—and increasingly, research—suggests otherwise.

Responsibility is not something we can force into another human being. It is something that must be taken up. Here, the voice of Søren Kierkegaard becomes important. For Kierkegaard, the human being stands always as an individual before a choice. Responsibility is not given—it is chosen. And this choice cannot be made under coercion alone. It requires inwardness. It requires that the individual recognizes themselves as a self who must respond.

Punishment may pressure behavior. But it cannot create that inward movement where responsibility is born.

The Cost of Punishment

The research article mentioned above, also reminds us of something we often overlook: Punishment is costly. Not only in terms of resources, but in what it creates between people:

• resistance
• distance
• mistrust

And sometimes, escalation.

If punishment:

• consumes energy
• weakens relationships
• and does not reliably create responsibility

…then we must ask:

Why do we return to it so quickly? Perhaps because it gives us a sense of control. A sense that we are “doing something.” But control is not the same as understanding. And action is not always the same as change.

A Different Starting Point

What if we begin somewhere else?

Not with the question of how to correct behavior, but with the question of how to meet another human being. This is where Foucault, Gadamer, and Kierkegaard quietly converge:

• Foucault reminds us that systems shape people
• Gadamer reminds us that understanding happens in relation
• Kierkegaard reminds us that responsibility must be chosen

Together, they point toward something both simple and demanding: That human change does not begin with force, but with encounter.

A Personal Reflection

Through years of working with children and families, I have come to see the limits of punishment when it is rooted in pain.

What is meant to correct can instead divide.
What is meant to guide can instead wound.

I have seen children who learned to strike back. Others who withdrew—from others, from themselves.
And some who carried the pain quietly, until it shaped the course of their lives in ways no one had intended.

Punishment may create obedience for a moment. But it rarely creates understanding. And without understanding, responsibility has little ground to grow. And yet, something else is always possible.

A meeting between human beings — where one is not reduced to a problem to be fixed, but recognized as a person to be met. In that space, something shifts.

Understanding begins—not as agreement, but as a shared effort to see. Responsibility begins—not as pressure, but as a response that grows from within. Perhaps this is where real change begins. Not in the act of punishment — but in the quiet, demanding work of staying in relationship.

References

Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. Pantheon Books.

Gadamer, H.-G. (2004). Truth and method (2nd rev. ed.). Continuum. (Original work published 1960)

Kierkegaard, S. (1985). Fear and trembling. Penguin Classics. (Original work published 1843)

Fehr, E., & Gächter, S. (2002). Altruistic punishment in humans. Nature, 415(6868), 137–140.

Science. (2026, April 9). Research on punishment and cooperation. Science, 382(XXXX), 170–171.

Ostrom, E. (1990). Governing the commons: The evolution of institutions for collective action. Cambridge University Press.

With what I have lived, and what I have understood so far - I take my next step.

The text is written in a conversation with OpenAI/ChatGPT

Nothing as Something Meaningful. A reading of Heidegger in the light og Kierkegaard

 

Being Held Out into the Nothing

It is early April. Outside, spring has arrived in its quiet Nordic way—about 10 degrees Celsius, and the sun has just begun to warm the air. The light feels different now. Softer, yet more insistent.

It is 7:00 AM. I have already been sitting in my study for an hour.

In front of me lies a book I keep returning to: What Is Metaphysics? by Martin Heidegger. I have read it many times. And still—I am not finished with it. Some books are like that. They do not end. They continue to speak, but only when we are ready to listen again.

This morning, I stop at a single sentence:

“Da-sein heißt: Hineingehaltenheit in das Nichts.”

I translate it, for myself, like this:

Da-sein means: being held out into the Nothing.

And then I cannot read any further.

When a Sentence Stops You

There are moments in reading where something happens—not intellectually first, but existentially. A sentence does not just inform; it interrupts. It holds you.

This is such a moment.

What does it mean to be “held out into the Nothing”? Not thrown. Not abandoned. But held.

The word carries a tension: something both sustaining and unsettling.

And immediately, my thoughts turn to Søren Kierkegaard.

Anxiety and the Edge of Freedom

In The Concept of Anxiety, Kierkegaard—writing as Vigilius Haufniensis—offers one of the most profound insights into what it means to be human.

He draws a distinction that still feels clinically precise today:
Fear has an object. Anxiety does not.

The object of anxiety is:

Nothing.

But this “Nothing” is not emptiness in a trivial sense. It is possibility.

Kierkegaard writes that anxiety is “the reality of freedom as the possibility of possibility.” This is a remarkable formulation. It suggests that anxiety is not merely something we suffer—it is something we are exposed to as beings who are free.

We stand on the edge of possibility.

And that edge is not solid ground.

It is Nothing.

Falling Into—or Standing Within

In lived experience, anxiety often feels like something that overtakes us. It comes, it grips, it unsettles. We may feel as if we are falling.

Kierkegaard describes this almost as a kind of misrelation—a yielding, a slipping. Anxiety becomes overwhelming when we lose ourselves in it.

But Heidegger offers a subtle shift.

What if we are not simply falling into Nothing—but already held within it?

This changes everything.

The Nothing is no longer just a threat. It becomes a condition of existence.

Heidegger and the Openness of Being

Heidegger writes:

Nothing is neither an object nor a being at all. It occurs neither by itself nor alongside beings. Nothing is the condition for the openness of beings as such for human existence… In the Being of beings, the nihilation of Nothing occurs.

This is difficult language. It resists simplification. But perhaps it can be approached in this way:

The Nothing is not “something.”
But without it, nothing could appear as meaningful.

It is the clearing—the open space—within which beings can show themselves.

And we, as human beings, are not outside this clearing.

We are held within it.

The Forgotten Question

And yet, Heidegger insists that we have forgotten this.

He calls it Seinvergessenheit—the forgetfulness of Being.

We move through the world naming, categorizing, explaining. We focus on what things are (what he calls Was-sein), but lose sight of that they are at all (Das-sein).

In Plato’s Doctrine of Truth, Heidegger uses the image of the cave:

• Inside the cave, we deal with definitions, categories, representations.
• Outside the cave, there is exposure—existence itself, unshielded.

Truth, he suggests, lies not in choosing one over the other, but in the tension between them.

In what is concealed.

In what calls us out of ourselves.

Why I Return to This Book

This is why I return to Heidegger.

Not because I fully understand him.

But because I do not.

Because a single sentence can open something that cannot be closed again.

Because it reminds me that thinking is not only about clarity—but about staying with what is unclear, without reducing it too quickly.

Perhaps this is also a form of practical philosophy.

Not providing answers we can draw two lines under.

But helping us remain present in the questions that shape a life.

A Quiet Ending

So I sit here, in the early morning light.

The book is still open.

I have not read further.

And yet—I feel that something has already happened.

It is no wonder I must read this book many times,
when even a single sentence can hold me like this.

References

Aarnes, A., & Wyller, E. (Eds.). (1962). Hva er metafysikk? (G. Fløistad, Trans.). Oslo: Universitetsforlaget.

Cole, J. (1971). The concept of anxiety: A critical analysis of Kierkegaard’s work. Princeton University Press.

Heidegger, M. (1961/1997). Nietzsche (Vols. 1–2). San Francisco, CA: HarperCollins.

Heidegger, M. (2000). Platon: Sannhetens vesen (K. T. Pettersen, Trans.). Oslo: EPOS.

Heidegger, M. (2004). What is metaphysics? In D. F. Krell (Ed.), Basic writings (pp. 93–110). New York, NY: HarperCollins.

Kierkegaard, S. (1980). The concept of anxiety (R. Thomte, Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1844)

With what I have lived, and what I have understood so far - I take my next step

I have written this text, and OpenAI/ChatGPT has created the illustrations in a dialog with me and the written text. 

 

Shame, Guilt—and the Slow Work of Healing

There are moments in life when something in us quietly collapses.

Not necessarily because we have broken a law.
Not because someone has pointed a finger at us.
But because something in the relationship—to ourselves, or to another human being—has been disturbed.

We call it shame.
Sometimes guilt.
Often, we are not even sure what to call it.

In my own work with the sexual abuse og children and adults since 1982, I have met hundreds of people who carry this as an unbearable burden.. This was also what I wrote about in my Ph.D. thesis (see references below). Sometimes visibly, but more often silently. It is not always something they can explain. It is something they feel—in their body, in their relationships, in the way they withdraw or hesitate in the world.

The philosopher Martin Buber helps us here. He reminds us that there is a form of guilt—and I would say also shame—that cannot be reduced to psychology, diagnoses, or hidden memories. It arises in the space between people. In relationships. In the way we either meet—or fail to meet—one another (Buber, 1958) 

Buber says that it is not enough with a small beam of light.

What is needed is an ocean of light.

Illustration created by Open AI/ChatGPT in cooperation with the author.

When Something Falls Between Us

We do not exist alone. Each of us stands, always, in relation to others.

This is what makes life possible. It is also what makes us vulnerable.

A relationship can remain distant and objective. But sometimes, something more happens. We step into a personal encounter. We open ourselves. And in that opening, something is at stake.

Because in that same space, there is also the possibility of:

• acceptance
• rejection
• transgression

When something is violated in this space, a wound appears.

And here is something important I have learned, both professionally and personally:

The wound cannot be healed by someone else.

But it can be met by someone else.

And that matters.

Helping Without Taking Over

When we meet a person who carries shame or guilt, there is often a temptation:
to guide, to explain, to show the way.

But this is not how healing works.

No one can be shown “the correct path” through shame. Each person must find their own way. Their own movement. Their own truth.

And yet—we are not without a role.

We can accompany.
We can help the person come to a place where a path becomes visible.
A starting point. A first step.

Sometimes that is enough.

Three Spaces We Move Within

Buber describes three different spheres in which guilt—and I would say also shame—can be understood:

• the judicial sphere
• the sphere of conscience
• the sphere of faith

These are not just abstract categories. They are ways of understanding how a human being relates to themselves, to others, and to something beyond.

1. The Judicial Sphere – Society’s Gaze

This is the sphere of laws, rules, and judgments.

Here, guilt is something that can be declared, punished, and regulated. Society sets the terms.

We also know—through thinkers like Martha Nussbaum—that shame can be used socially, even politically, as a way of controlling or disciplining people.

But as helpers, therapists, or fellow human beings, this is not our field.

We are not there to judge.
Nor to reinforce shame.

2. The Sphere of Faith – The Inner Relationship to the Absolute

This is a deeply personal space.

It concerns the individual’s relationship to God, or to something ultimate. Here we find confession, forgiveness, fear, hope.

But this is also not a space we can enter on behalf of another person.

If someone struggles here, we must be careful. This is sacred ground.
To intervene without understanding can do more harm than good.

3. The Sphere of Conscience – Where Healing Becomes Possible

This is where something begins to open.

Here, the person turns toward themselves. Not to punish—but to understand.

And here, I believe, is where we can meet another human being in a meaningful way.

Buber points to three movements within this sphere:

• self-knowledge
• endurance
• expiation

Let me stay with these for a moment.

Martin Buber 1878-1965. Photo from Wikipedia

To See Oneself Clearly

Self-knowledge is not comfortable.

It requires honesty. It asks us to look at who we have been—and who we are becoming.

Buber describes conscience as the human ability to distinguish between what we once approved of and what we now cannot accept.

There is something deeply human in this.
We are the only beings, as far as we know, who can step back—not only from the world, but from ourselves.

And in that distance, something important can happen.

To Endure What We Discover

Insight alone is not enough.

What we see, we must also be able to bear.

Endurance is not about punishment. It is about staying present in what is difficult—without collapsing, without fleeing.

Many people who struggle with shame know this place well. It can feel like quicksand. The more one struggles, the deeper one sinks.

And yet, slowly, it is possible to stand.

To Make Amends Without Destroying Oneself

Expiation is a delicate movement.

It is not the same as self-punishment.
Not the same as inflicting more suffering on oneself.

It is about repair. About making things right—where that is possible.

And equally important: knowing when repair must take another form.

Sometimes, the deepest movement is not outward—but inward.

When Shame Becomes Existential

One of the most important insights in Buber’s thinking is this:

Shame is not primarily about breaking rules.

It is about something deeper—something existential.

We may follow all the rules and still feel shame.
And we may break rules without feeling it.

Shame arises when something in our relationship to our own existence is disturbed.

And this is why it cannot be reduced to social norms or psychological categories alone.

To take responsibility for this kind of shame is not about obeying rules.
It is about taking responsibility for one’s own life.

The Turning Point

There is a moment—sometimes quiet, almost invisible—when something shifts.

A person who has been caught in shame begins to turn toward themselves.

Not with condemnation.
But with courage.

Buber describes this as a movement from lower levels of conscience—where the self punishes and tortures itself—to higher levels, where a person begins to reclaim their own life.

I have seen this moment.

It does not come through pressure.
Not through advice.

It comes when a person dares to see—and still remain.

An Ocean of Light

Buber uses a powerful image.

He says that it is not enough with a small beam of light.
What is needed is an ocean of light.

A full awakening.

This awakening does not deny the past.
It does not erase what has happened.

But it allows a person to say:

The one I was… and the one I am… are the same person.

And from that place, something new becomes possible.

Toward Restoration

Healing is not about becoming someone else.

It is about becoming oneself—more fully, more truthfully.

This requires effort.
It requires energy.
It requires, sometimes, a deep devotion—to others, and to life itself.

There is also a danger here: the splitting of the self. The feeling of being divided, contradictory, lost.

To heal is, in part, to gather oneself again.

And Perhaps This Is the Most Hopeful Thought

Buber says something that has stayed with me:

We cannot do evil with our whole being.
But we can do good with our whole being.

And perhaps this is where hope lies.

Because when a person finds their true self—not the defended self, not the ashamed self, but the deeper one—then something shifts.

Good does not have to be forced.

It begins to happen.

References

Buber, M. (1958). Schuld und Schuldgefühle. Heidelberg: Heidelberg. 

Nussbaum, M. C. (2001). Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Nussbaum, M. C. (2004). Hiding from Humanity: Disgust, Shame, and the Law. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Pettersen, Kaare Torgny, 2009: An Exploration into the Concept and Phenomenon of Shame within the Context of Child Sexual Abuse. An Existential-Dialogical Perspectiveof Social Work within the Settings of a Norwegian Incest Centre.  PhD 2009 Department of Social Work and Health Science Faculty of Social Sciences and Technology Management. Norwegian University of Science and Technology, NTNU, Trondheim, Norway. Doctoral theses 2009: 184

With what I have lived, and what I have understood so far - I take my next step.

The text is written by me, in an open conversation with OpenAI/ChatGPT