The Empathy Node Podcast

By: Compassion is Parallel Processing
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  • Summary

  • Explore human connection's unseen threads. The Empathy Node blends stories & psychology, revealing empathy via "parallel processing." Tune in for insightful episodes.

    empathynode.substack.com
    Empathy Node
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Episodes
  • When Playtime Seeds Purpose

    When Playtime Seeds Purpose
    Jan 21 2025
    The noise of the dial-up modem was the soundtrack to my adolescence. Back then, the internet felt like a secret world unfolding on the glowing screen of our family’s chunky computer. My domain wasn’t a treehouse or a sports field, but the chaotic, exhilarating landscape of early MySpace profiles. It sounds ridiculous now, the sheer intensity I poured into crafting those personalized pages. My own, a monument to teenage angst and questionable musical taste, was constantly evolving. But the real buzz came when my friends started asking. "Dude, can you fix my background?" "Make mine all dark and mysterious?" "Can you put this band's logo right here?"HTML felt like a forbidden language, a code whispered about in the hushed tones of nascent online forums. Information was scarce, fragmented. You had to dig, follow obscure links, piece together snippets of code from half-forgotten tutorials. Frustration was a constant companion, a tight knot in my stomach as some tag stubbornly refused to cooperate.But when that image finally aligned perfectly, when the custom font loaded just so, a thrill would shoot through me, a feeling of pure, unadulterated creation. It wasn't about the likes or the followers – those weren't really a thing yet. It was the satisfaction of bending this digital space to my will, of making something unique exist.MySpace profiles? It seemed trivial, a goofy teenage pastime. Little did I know, I was building more than just flashy pages. I was learning the raw logic of structure, the power of visual communication, the almost obsessive attention to detail required to bring an idea to life.It wasn't just about picking colors; it was about understanding how elements interacted, how to solve problems when things went haywire, and most importantly, how to listen to what someone wanted, even if they couldn’t articulate it perfectly. Those whispered requests from friends weren't just for favors; they were early validation. A silent acknowledgment of a skill, however nascent.Then came graduation, high school, and college a few years later. And then, the cold, hard reality of the Great Recession. The air crackled with anxiety. News reports spoke of job losses and economic turmoil. The future felt less like a vast, open road and more like a brick wall looming closer. My diploma felt flimsy, my limited work experience utterly insignificant.“Adapt or perish,” I remember hearing back then. The words echoed with a cruel irony. What did adapting even look like in this landscape?But that quiet hum, that persistent spark, wouldn't die. The glow of that old monitor, the sting of frustration, the sweet taste of digital victory – it all kept flickering in my mind. Building MySpace pages seemed like a lifetime ago, a childish indulgence. But those late nights wrestling with code, that problem-solving grit – what if there was something there? What if that seemingly silly passion held a key?Websites for businesses? Back then, it felt like suggesting they invest in a personal spaceship. Most considered it an outlandish expense, an unnecessary frill. But I saw something else. I saw potential. I saw a new frontier for connection, for communication.The whispers of possibility grew into a defiant shout in my head. I started small, embarrassingly so. Craigslist ads, plain and simple. A small box in the local newspaper, easily overlooked. “Website Design – Affordable Rates.” I was essentially selling a concept, an idea most weren't even considering.The silence was initially disheartening. Doubts gnawed. Had I completely lost my mind? Then, a flicker. A hesitant email from a local bakery wanting to sell their cakes online. A phone call followed from an electrician wanting to list his services in a way that felt “professional.” Before long, a plastic surgeon reached out, eager to present before-and-after galleries to prospective clients. Slowly, painstakingly, the tide began to turn. They started to see it too.A website wasn't just a fancy digital brochure; it was a storefront open 24/7, a place to answer questions before they were even asked, a way to connect with customers they might never reach otherwise. My “web design business,” a phrase that still felt strange to say, started to breathe.Now, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards fills the office. My team – talented designers, sharp-eyed developers, SEO gurus who speak in algorithms – are immersed in their work. My title is Director now, and it still feels surreal sometimes, a heavy mantle I never expected to wear. We build complex platforms, intricate e-commerce sites, data-driven applications. The simplicity of those early MySpace days feels almost prehistoric. Back then, if you did a website, you were simply a “webmaster.” One title to encompass everything. Now, there’s an entire constellation of specialized skills.The other day, I saw a group of teenagers huddled together, not building websites, but crafting elaborate TikTok videos...
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    9 mins
  • Unseen Blossoms

    Unseen Blossoms
    Jan 12 2025
    The corner of my eye caught it first, a fleeting impression on the tiled station floor. We were trailing behind her, the usual family gaggle, navigating the slightly gritty expanse as we waited for our train. Her laughter, a bright bell cutting through the muffled announcements and the rumble of distant tracks. It was a faint dusting, delicate and unexpectedly floral against the worn tiles. A double take confirmed it: with each step, the tread of her tennis shoe was leaving a perfect miniature blossom in its wake. A tiny petunia, I think, or maybe a forget-me-not. Something gentle and unassuming, tracked from the patch of dirt we’d just crossed.I blinked, and the image snagged a loose thread in my mind, a curious juxtaposition against the starkness of the station. Her, bustling ahead, a whirlwind of cheerful greetings and easy conversations. She leaves a trail of light wherever she goes, always has. The harried-looking woman behind the ticket counter morphing from weary efficiency to a genuine smile after a brief exchange about the unpredictable train schedule. The frazzled mother struggling with a stroller letting out a soft chuckle at some silly observation about the price of platform coffee. Even that gruff-looking security guard we saw once, the one with the perpetually bored expression, had his posture ease as she asked him, with that disarming sincerity of hers, if he'd managed to grab a lunch break yet. It's like she carries a portable patch of sunshine, deploying it wherever she lands, even in the echoing confines of a train station.But these silent, blooming footprints… they felt like a different language entirely. A language of gentle persistence, a subtle poetry woven into the hurried rhythm of travelers. She’s always been a force, a human dynamo of empathy, but this… this was something quiet, an unspoken grace.“Hey,” I called out, gesturing towards the subtle floral patterns fading under passing feet. We’d just stepped off that random patch of dirt next to the restrooms. “Your shoes are leaving little flowers on the floor.”She stopped, turning with that familiar wide smile, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “These old things? Good support for standing, that’s for sure.” She glanced down at her feet, a slight tilt of her head, the bright white of the worn tennis shoes a stark contrast to the patterned residue on the tile. No dawning recognition, no awareness of the artistic echo trailing her.“No, look,” I pointed to a particularly clear imprint near the base of a metal pillar. The delicate petals, the slight curve of a stem, outlined in the fine layer of dust. “The soles… they’re patterned.”Her brow furrowed, a rare moment of confusion replacing the usual easygoing expression. She lifted her foot, turning it this way and that, as if inspecting a newly discovered species. A small “Oh!” escaped her lips, more of surprise than understanding. She genuinely hadn’t noticed the subtle artistry of her shoe’s tread.That’s the thing about the light you carry, isn't it? You’re so busy radiating, so focused on the reaching out, the connecting, that you rarely see the wake you leave behind. You’re immersed in the doing, the giving, the offering of comfort and connection, one heartfelt smile at a time. Here, amidst the transient energy of the train station, she embodies that role even when off-duty. She is a traveling nurse.Tending to the invisible anxieties of strangers with a kind word or a genuine smile. Those spaces, I imagine, like the adult day care centers, can be heavy with unspoken needs and the quiet loneliness of those seeking connection. And then she moves through, a burst of everyday warmth, her presence a comforting constant. She asks about their travels, truly listens to the hurried responses, offers a moment of levity, a genuine smile. She sees past the luggage and the destinations, sees the person still there, navigating their own small dramas, yearning for a flicker of human contact.And it extends beyond her work, doesn’t it? That effortless ability to connect, to ease the stiffness in others. She’s never truly ‘off duty.’ Even here, waiting for the train, she’s a force for quiet connection. It’s just… her. A natural extension of who she is. To give a moment of brightness, a flicker of warmth. It’s a generosity of spirit so ingrained it’s become unconscious.Standing there, watching her still slightly bewildered by the floral evidence of her passage across the station floor, it struck me with a quiet force. How often are we ourselves unknowingly leaving these marks? Not always blooms, of course, especially on a station platform. Sometimes the prints we leave are scuffed, hurried, leaving traces of our impatience or our indifference. A clipped word on the phone, a frustrated sigh directed at no one in particular, the way we push past someone without making eye contact. Those marks linger too, shaping the ...
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    7 mins
  • Saltillo Tile Always Remembers

    Saltillo Tile Always Remembers
    Jan 8 2025
    Dust motes were illuminated as they danced in the afternoon sun of Merida. Each mote a tiny spotlight on the uneven surface beneath my sandals. There was a low thrum of humid heat and distant traffic, but I could focus with intense precision on what I was there to examine. There it was, amongst all of the new, carefully laid stones: A solitary square. Saltillo. Unvarnished. Eroded. It was as if someone were whispering to me from another time—a whisper made audible by the old, discolored surface right beneath the canopy where waiters now balanced trays of cochinita pibil. I could feel the press of dancing feet, the swirl of skirts, the muffled laughter rising up from that faded tile. I wondered how many stories its porous clay had absorbed, like ink spilled on blotting paper. Each scuff and softened edge, it seemed to me, was a silent testament to moments lived, moments that had vanished into the past but were forever imprinted on that unvarnished square.And then a sharp thought surfaced—the pristine harshness of the newly laid Saltillo in my house. “Damn that impulse buy!” I cursed, remembering that feeling of “rustic charm” that made the tiles in the showroom seem so much more appealing than they now did. I now knew its flaw: unsealed. Any drip, any accidental nudge—it was all recorded on the vulnerable terracotta. I remembered the first coffee spill and the immediate panic that washed over me as I frantically scrubbed to remove it. I was left, after much toiling and scrubbing, with the lingering shadow that was a mocking reminder of my carelessness. They were supposed to be perfect; they were supposed to be a blank canvas that reflected the well-ordered life that I was striving to live. Instead, I was now experiencing a chaotic history of small mishaps. A splatter of paint from one of my less-than-stellar attempts to become an artist. A faint greasy circle—a trace of a midnight snack hastily devoured. Each stain felt like a personal failure.That worn-out tile in Merida gave me new perspective. Its imperfections weren’t flaws; they were a history. It was a narrative made of clay. I glanced inward, my mind’s eye falling back on my house’s mottled expanse. Near the doorway, I spied those nearly imperceptible scratches. It was the frantic slide of my dog's tiny paws and nails as he tried to maintain purchase on the slick surface. Gone a year now, the absence still made my chest hurt from time to time. I saw, then, that those scratches weren't imperfections; they were the ghost of his joyful greetings and clumsy enthusiasm.My eyes moved to another mark. Near the back door, there was a dark patch from all that messy action. I thought about that stray dog, how skinny and scared she was, how she found her sanctuary with us. Then I remembered, one chilly morning, the quiet surprises huddled in a corner: a litter of tiny pups, tiny whimpers, blind paws searching. The stain was there to commemorate a mother’s instinct to feed her young, to keep them alive—and my instinct, as one of the humans, to clean up the chaotic mess that ensued. It wasn’t a blemish; it was a testament to a surge of unexpected life—a connection to something wild and vulnerable. I nearly forgot the immense and overwhelming responsibility, the exhaustion, and the tenderness.Near the counter, there was a faint reddish halo. It was from last year’s Christmas. Too much merriment and good cheer, too much cinnamon whiskey, and then…a tipped glass. My eyes softened at this thought. I remembered all the off-key singalongs, all of the imperfect friction we always have, all the moments of joy. The stain wasn't a sign of clumsiness; it was the trace of shared warmth, voices raised in song (however off-key), and a profound (yet fleeting) feeling of belonging.And the thought occurred to me, unbidden, like a sudden settling of previously choppy waters: These aren't imperfections. They are echoes. Whispers of the moments that would have been lost in the relentless tide of days. My initial desire for a perfectly sealed and clean tile felt, suddenly, hollow and shallow. The tile in Merida wasn’t perfect; it was beautiful because it wasn't. Its imperfections were its connection to the many feet that had stepped on it, the many lives that had revolved around it. My own floor, marked and stained, was telling its story: a richer, much more meaningful tale than any perfect surface could ever dream of. The coldness I used to feel as I looked at these marks was gone, replaced with a strange, unfamiliar tenderness. These stains, after all, were proof—proof that we had lived, loved, stumbled, and cared within these walls. The Saltillo wasn't just a floor; it was a witness to our small, daily miracles. It remembered fleeting pets, the noisy gatherings, and the everyday acts of care. In its porous, imperfect way, it was showing me the beauty of a life lived fully, beautifully imprinted onto the foundation of our house. The panic ...
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    6 mins

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