Today, like many others, I opened my phone and found my social media flooded with reels of a penguin alone, walking away from its group toward the mountains. Millions watched. Millions shared. Millions felt something. Some called it suicide, some called it depression, some wrapped it in poetic quotes about walking away from places where you are not respected or heard. The video moved people. It made them pause. It made them ache

That penguin, an animal driven by instinct and mystery, stirred a collective empathy so powerful that strangers across the world felt compelled to speak about pain, loneliness, and mental health. And yet, somewhere in that moment of shared emotion, an uncomfortable question quietly waited to be asked: Why does the pain of a penguin move us more deeply than the pain of the human sitting next to us? Every human being, without exception, carries some form of anxiety, sadness, or quiet despair. Some wear it openly; most hide it well. We scroll, we laugh, we work, we post pictures, we crack jokes while carrying storms no one sees. Everyone is looking for someone to share those thoughts with, someone who will listen without interrupting, without fixing, without judging. But how often do we actually offer that space to each other?
We felt the penguin’s loneliness instantly. We assumed stress, pressure, abandonment, exhaustion. We gave it meaning. We gave it compassion. But when a human being withdraws, when they go quiet, when they stop showing up, when they walk away from friendships or relationships what do we do then?
We label.We minimise. We joke. We judge.
“Drama.”
“Attention seeker.”
“Mentally weak.”
“Addicted.”
“Too sensitive.”
We turn pain into a personality flaw and move on.Most people don’t disappear because they want to. They disappear because they feel unheard, unseen, and unvalued for too long. Walking away is rarely the first choice; it is the last act of self-preservation when staying hurts more than leaving. But instead of asking why, we let ego speak. We tell ourselves, “If they wanted to stay, they would.” And in doing so, we silence our own responsibility in the story.
Have we ever truly paused to ask why a friend walked away from us?
Not rhetorically. Not defensively. But with genuine humility.
Have we asked ourselves whether we listened when they tried to speak?
Whether we dismissed their emotions because they made us uncomfortable?
Whether we laughed when we should have listened?
Whether we chose being right over being kind?
We often say we are too busy. Too tired. Too stressed. And yet, we somehow find hours to scroll, share, comment, and emotionally invest in stories of strangers and animals. We can spend four minutes watching a reel, but not four minutes sitting with a friend in silence, letting them speak, letting them cry, letting them exist without solutions or jokes.
Kindness has become performative. Empathy has become selective.
We show immense compassion toward animals, plants, distant tragedies, and symbolic suffering. We campaign, we repost, we write captions filled with depth and awareness. But when the suffering is close when it looks like our friend, our sibling, our colleague it suddenly feels inconvenient. Too real. Too messy.
Human pain demands responsibility.Animal pain only demands emotion. Perhaps that is why it is easier.
We were created to be kind. Kindness is not an extraordinary virtue; it is a basic human responsibility. And yet, when it comes to humans, kindness is often conditional. We offer it only when someone’s pain is expressed in a way that is polite, quiet, and palatable. If their pain is loud, repetitive, angry, or uncomfortable, we withdraw. We shame them for not healing fast enough.
But healing does not happen in isolation. It happens in presence.
Depression does not always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like humour. Anxiety does not always look like fear. Sometimes it looks like overachievement. Loneliness does not always look like being alone. Sometimes it looks like being surrounded by people who do not truly listen. The most tragic part is this: many people who walked away once tried very hard to stay. They explained themselves repeatedly. They softened their pain to make it easier for others to digest. They laughed through discomfort. They adjusted, compromised, and endured. Walking away was not ego it was exhaustion.
And when they finally leave, we rewrite the story to protect our comfort.
We say, “They changed.”
We say, “They couldn’t handle it.”
We say, “That’s just how they are.”
Rarely do we say, “Maybe I missed something.”
The penguin walking alone became a metaphor for modern human loneliness. But metaphors should not replace action. Awareness without compassion is just performance. Mental health conversations mean nothing if they don’t change how we treat people when they are difficult, slow, or inconvenient.
The question is not whether we felt sad watching the penguin. The real question is:
Would we sit with a human who feels the same way?
Would we listen without interrupting?
Would we resist the urge to give advice?
Would we put our phones down?
Would we choose understanding over ego?
Because sometimes, all a person needs is four minutes. Four uninterrupted minutes of being heard without judgment. Four minutes where they are not told to be strong, positive, or grateful. Four minutes where their pain is not turned into a joke.
If we can offer that to a penguin on a screen, we can offer it to the people in our lives. And if we don’t, we should ask ourselves quietly and honestly what kind of empathy we are practicing.
Not the kind that trends.
Not the kind that gets likes.
But the kind that saves lives.

Email:--------------------essarbhat22@gmail.com