The Hidden Cost of Bearing Witness: How Constant Exposure to Global Tragedy Wounds Us

Every day, I open my phone or laptop, and I'm confronted with unimaginable scenes: children in Gaza starving and dying, the assassination of a political commentator, and a Ukranian refugee brutally murdered while riding a bus in the US. These images and stories appear suddenly, often without warning, woven in the same feeds where friends share vacation photos or someone posts a funny meme. Within seconds, I'm pulled into another world: one filled with horror, grief, and helplessness.

As a therapist, I spend much of my life holding the pain of other people. I am trained to sit with suffering, to listen, to process, and to bear witness in a way that allows healing. But lately, I notice that I'm carrying a heaviness that doesn't come from my clients alone. It comes from being exposed to suffering that I cannot stop and cannot fix, broadcasted across the globe and delivered straight into my hands.

I know this heaviness has a name: vicarious trauma. It's a term we often use to describe what happens to first responders, trauma therapists, and humanitarian workers -- those who witness suffering over and over again, often secondhand. But now, in this era of relentless information, we are all vulnerable. Simply scrolling through our phones can leave us emotionally and physiologically impacted in ways we don't always realize.

The Weight of What We See

Sometimes, I notice it in my own body. After a scroll session, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, images replaying in my mind for hours on end throughout the day. Other times, it shows up in my mood: irritability where there wasn't any before, a creeping sense of hopelessness, or a nagging guilt that I can't "do enough." And yet, despite the toll, I keep looking. If the victims of these traumas can't look away, then I punish myself by continuing to look, too. Many of us do.

We were never meant to live like this. Our nervous systems evolved to respond to the dangers in our immediate environment: protecting our families, our communities, our villages. We were designed to respond when a neighbor was in need, when a child was hungry, when a loved one was in danger. Today, however, we are bombarded with tragedies happening thousands of miles away; events we cannot change, lives we cannot save, and disasters we cannot prevent.

This mismatch between what our bodies were designed for and the world we live in leaves us stuck in a chronic state of distress. We are constantly receiving alarms, but we have no way to silence them with action. That's part of why it feels so overwhelming: no matter what we might do for the people in Gaza, no matter how much of ourselves we give, it will never be enough.

The Privilege of Looking Away

At the same time, I am acutely aware of the privilege I hold. I can turn off my phone. I can take a walk, hug my loved ones, or distract myself with a book or a show. Families in Gaza, or anywhere tragedy is unfolding, do not have that choice. They can't mute the horrors surrounding them. They don't get to log off.

This recognition is important. To be able to choose whether or not to witness suffering is itself a form of safety and privilege. Remembering this doesn't mean I should drown myself in endless media coverage as penance; it means I can approach my choices with humility. I can acknowledge that stepping back is something I do from a place of relative security, and I can honor that by balancing boundaries with compassionate action.

The Subtle Erosion of Empathy

When we are overexposed to tragedy, something dangerous happens: we start to go numb. We start to feeling nothing anymore, or we've stopped caring because it all just hurts too much. That numbness is not indifference: it's a protective response to overwhelm. But, if we are not careful, it can erode our empathy, leaving us disconnected not only from global suffering, but also from the people around us.

This is one of the hidden costs of our modern information age. In trying to care about everything, we risk losing the ability to care deeply about anything.

What Helps?

So, what do we do? How do we stay informed and compassionate without destroying ourselves in the process?

Here are a few practices that help me:

1. Limit exposure intentionally. Scrolling endlessly is not the same as bearing witness. It's okay to set boundaries. Turn off autoplay videos, unfollow accounts that share graphic content, or set time limits on your apps. This isn't denial; it's survival.

2. Seek trusted summaries. Not every horrific detail or image is necessary to understand a situation. Reading a written article from a reliable source can keep you informed without the visceral impact of raw footage.

3. Hold both truths. It is a privilege to look away, and it is also sometimes necessary. You can acknowledge the privilege of disengagement while still granting yourself permission to protect your mental health.

4. Take compassionate action. Instead of doomscrolling, channel your energy into something tangible. Donate, volunteer, write to your representatives, or share verified resources. Action transforms helplessness into agency.

5. Reconnect to your present life. Spend time with people you love, notice small joys, or engage in rituals that ground you. This doesn't mean ignoring global suffering. It means replenishing yourself so that you can keep showing up with compassion.

A Call to Action

If you're reading this and recognizing yourself in these words, I want to invite you to pause today. Ask yourself: what has my nervous system absorbed from the media this week? How is it showing up in my body, my mood, my relationships?

Then, take one small step toward balance. Maybe that means putting your phone down and going for a walk. Maybe it means making a donation instead of watching another heartbreaking video. Maybe it means talking to a friend or therapist about how heavy it feels to carry all of this alone.

Bearing witness matters. But to keep our empathy alive, we must learn how to metabolize what we see. That requires rest, boundaries, and conscious choices about where we direct our attention and our energy.

We are not failing when we step back. We are preserving the very capacity that allows us to care in the first place.

Because if compassion is going to survive in a world like this, it has to be sustainable.

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We know the weight of the world feels heavy. Please remember, you are not alone. To set up a free consultation with one of our therapists, you can find us here.