“I’m not going to be your partner on the project unless you give me the treat from your lunch!”

These kinds of threats are tactics many school-age kids use to solve conflicts. Parents and teachers sometimes assume these common threats are basically harmless.

After all, are they so different from comments kids might hear from grownups in their lives? It’s a small step from “Daddy better get you to school on time or Mommy is going to be angry with him!” to “If you don’t give me that toy, you won’t be my best friend anymore!”

The adult and the kid versions are both signs of bullying behavior. I’m a child psychologist, and I know that kids imitate the behaviors they observe at home. Bullying is tied to poor outcomes not only for the child who is bullied but for the bullies themselves, who run a higher risk than their peers of experiencing depression when they become teens. Youth who are bullies also are more likely to engage in aggressive and rule-breaking behavior, have substance use problems, and hang out with other adolescents who share these tendencies.

The good news is that parents can change the ways they handle their own conflicts to demonstrate for children how to use healthier and more positive ways to interact with others.

Getting people to do what you want

Across cultures, regardless of temperament, most children act with two goals in mind: to get or do things they want and to avoid things that they don’t want.

Kids want things like hugs and affection, praise, cool toys, yummy food, and treats. They want to play, have fun, and spend time with family and friends. Alternatively, they don’t want to do things that seem tiring, stressful, scary, or boring, like cleaning up, doing chores, getting ready for bed, or completing difficult or tedious schoolwork.

Think about all the ways you can get someone to do something that’s undesirable to them, especially if you have power over them. You can use positive tactics, such as direct encouragement, incentives, and praise. You can try negative tactics, such as threats, manipulation, and force. Some—asking politely, saying please and thank you each time—work better than others, such as nagging or pleading.

Children learn which tactics work and are acceptable by seeing how adults, who hold power over them, employ them.

On one extreme, observing aggression between parents increases risk for children’s heightened aggression and violence in their own social relationships. Stanford psychologist Albert Bandura’s seminal 1961 “Bobo Doll Study” found that preschool children who saw an adult hit and kick a life-size inflatable figure were more likely to be aggressive toward that figure when frustrated.

In my own research, I focused on children who were exposed to domestic violence between parents as early as in infancy. As adults, these now-grown children were more likely to be both victims and perpetrators of violence with their romantic partners. People were particularly likely to be violent as adults if they were exposed to domestic violence when they were in preschool, as opposed to later in childhood, suggesting early childhood is a particularly important time for parents to model healthy conflict resolution.

Many people don’t regularly use physical force on each other or on their kids to get what they want, so children also pay attention to how subtle tactics such as manipulation, threats, and exclusion work. If children constantly hear, “If you don’t do this, you’ll lose that, or I’ll do this to you,” they learn that threats are acceptable and effective at getting others to comply.

What about even more subtle behavior, such as parents criticizing each other or giving one another the silent treatment?

If children regularly hear adults pointing blame or diminishing others’ self-worth—for example, “Mommy is so disorganized, she can’t keep herself together!” or “Daddy is so lazy, Mommy always has to do all the cooking AND the cleaning”—they are more likely to use these strategies to gain social dominance.

For children, this becomes, “You can’t play with us because your dress is ugly” or “You aren’t smart enough to be my partner.” Kids can pick up on each other’s weaknesses and learn to exploit them to get what they want.

For older children who observe one parent giving the other parent the silent treatment, “freezing out,” “canceling,” or “ghosting” others now become potentially useful strategies.

Modeling kindness

But what about the flip side: If parents modeling aggression or disrespect is harmful for children, is modeling respect, kindness, and compassion helpful? The answer is yes.

Parents who make respectful requests of one another, thank and praise each other, and work as a team model healthy social strategies for their kids, and these patterns have long-term benefits. Armed with these positive skills, children are not only less likely to bully others to get what they want, but they are more likely to recognize—and resist—being bullied themselves.

For example, if Mom is more patient and empathic, whereas Dad is able to be more stern and “hold the line,” parents can work as a team and play to each other’s strengths. This might look like Mom making the morning routine happen with warm and directive encouragement, while Dad takes charge of enforcing bedtime routines.

Then, a key ingredient to make this noticeable to kids is that both parents praise each other’s strengths in front of the kids: One parent says, “Thanks to Mom for getting us out of the house on time!” The other says, “Thank goodness that Dad keeps us organized!” This subtle yet detectable respect goes a long way. It also demonstrates how to leverage relationships to further your own interests, but in a positive and healthy way.

Kids who are accustomed to using kindness and respect to get what they want are less likely to tolerate unkind, mean, or manipulative behavior from bullies. Kindness becomes internalized, and it empowers kids to walk away from a bully.

Kids watch grownups for signs of how to act. Parents hold power over what kids get done and how, but they also have the power to show kids how to treat one another and how to do difficult things while also feeling good about them. The key is modeling kindness, teamwork, and gratitude to get things done well—and to do this across your child’s life, ideally as early in their development as possible.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Liudmyla Herasymenko, an associate professor at the Ukrainian State Flight Academy in Kropyvnytskyi, Kirovohrad, Ukraine, is one of the millions of educators carrying the invisible weight of supporting her students’ social and emotional well-being despite the turmoil that surrounds them every day.

“Because of the existing threat, which is hanging, you cannot plan your day in advance,” Herasymenko says. “You can have some plans, but everything can be changed in one second, and you need to adapt to be flexible about it. We have alerts, so that means we need to go to the shelter, then schedules of electricity, which means you need to find power and Wi-Fi. So, it’s a lot of stress that we are experiencing.”

Herasymenko is not alone—a rising number of children and educators are currently facing unprecedented disruption and stress due to living in conflict-affected areas. More than 473 million children live in or are fleeing settings of conflict and crisis around the world, and approximately 204 million people worldwide live in areas controlled or contested by armed groups.

Educators in these spaces are navigating burnout, secondary trauma, and constant uncertainty, while they simultaneously hold space for students’ fear, grief, and hope. In these conditions, the question is not whether teachers and students need support, but rather what kinds of support are actually feasible, sustainable, and relevant to them.

Small practices that make the day possible

Despite years of disruption, Ukrainian educators have found creative ways to help students stay connected and engaged. They adapt lesson plans around air raid alerts, maintain routines that foster belonging, and cultivate community across distance and displacement. Social-emotional learning (SEL) practices have become one more tool in that effort, helping educators strengthen the care and support they were already providing.

According to a recent journal article, SEL Kernels—short activities and strategies that are used to support the growth and development of social and emotional skills and competencies—helped support teachers and students in wartime Ukraine. These include games, routines, and activities that target specific skills like emotional regulation, conflict resolution, and building relationships.

When SEL practices are not adjusted to be responsive and relevant to a particular culture, they’re less likely to have benefits. These SEL Kernels, developed by Harvard University’s Ecological Approaches to Social Emotional Learning Laboratory, were modified to fit the evolving needs of educators and teachers in Ukraine. How? Rebecca Bailey and her colleagues started with landscape research to identify what challenges students and educators in Ukraine were actually facing.

“Building on these findings, we engaged in a collaborative co-design process with Ukrainian teachers and a team of LEGO Foundation Ukraine Master Trainers to adapt and refine the Kernels for local relevance and usability,” they write.

They conducted a survey and organized focus groups for teachers to discuss their concerns about student well-being and mental health. Teachers identified areas where additional support could strengthen the work they were already doing, including helping students regulate emotions during air raid alerts, rebuild social connections, and navigate prolonged uncertainty.

Based on the survey and focus group discussions, the researchers identified five priorities for the Ukraine Kernels materials, including cooperation, mindfulness, cognitive skills, emotional intelligence, and teacher well-being.

“Finally, we piloted the adapted Kernels materials in diverse classroom settings, gathering data on implementation, feasibility, and relevance,” they write.

After the final revision of materials and rollout of the Kernels, Bailey and her colleagues found that teachers viewed the SEL Kernels as beneficial for both their own and students’ well-being. Teachers reported that the activities helped support emotional and psychological health, made learning more engaging and meaningful for children, and provided practical tools that eased the demands of teaching.

For example, Herasymenko has found that short mindful moments help ground both her and her students. Having students name their rose, thorn, and bud for the day—having them reflect on something positive, naming a challenge, and looking ahead to something they’re excited for—have helped them hold on to hope.

Additionally, she leads a five senses grounding practice with students to reconnect the mind and body without taking up a large amount of time during the learning day. In high-stress environments, practices like these work because they are small enough to hold, even on hard days.

“I cannot imagine my teaching being the same as it was before the war,” Herasymenko says. “Everything is different now. So, I prioritize my students’ well-being more than their academic achievements. I think that now it’s more important for them to be OK and to be without stress in my classes. This is my priority now.”

The impact of Ukrainian conflict in neighboring countries

Data from the Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre show that internal displacements—people who have been forced to flee or leave their homeland to avoid the effects of armed conflict, violence, or violations of human rights—increased from 20 million in 2024 to 32 million in 2025.

Schools in Poland have been significantly shaped by the conflict in Ukraine, and many educators are experiencing new emotional and practical challenges while supporting students. Małgorzata Lidacka, an educator in Kraków who works with displaced Ukrainian students ages seven to 10, has had to approach teaching in a much different way to help her students acclimate to the new environment—often slowing down and reminding herself not to rush to solutions while navigating both lesson plans and emotional responsibilities.

“When you’re a subject teacher, no one tells you that you will then have to be a coach, or some kind of therapist,” Lidacka says. “You can make a mistake and then it can influence these kids. So I feel this burden that it’s a lot for one person to combine those roles.”

The cultural barriers have also made it difficult for her to connect with parents, and some students have fallen behind because they refused to learn Polish when they first arrived, thinking that the stay in a new country would have been over much faster. The anger, fear, and hopelessness that her students are experiencing make it increasingly difficult to focus on academics, and Lidacka empathizes.

To support herself and her students while carrying this increased mental load, Lidacka turned to social-emotional learning strategies. She now routinely advocates for play to promote shared joy beyond language barriers and encourages small acts of kindness—like lending a pencil or a book to a classmate. Additionally, when working with parents, she began asking open-ended questions and practicing mindful listening, which she found made a huge difference in connecting and finding common ground.

“During the workshops with parents, I just listen,” Lidacka says. “And they are creating such great ideas about the future—for them and for their families.”

Despite the challenges Lidacka has faced with her students, she has also seen how remarkably adaptable they are. Many have learned to transition between online and in-person learning at a moment’s notice, they support classmates navigating similar disruptions, and most really dove headfirst into learning the new language and culture.

“The best part is small acts of kindness on a daily basis, and also a huge determination from Ukrainian kids to learn Polish,” Lidacka says. “They really wanted to learn very fast. And we have some pupils in the first grade that are fluent in Polish, even though their parents aren’t. So I’m like, ‘Wow, that’s amazing.’ Of course, it was a requirement, but not everyone succeeds.”

Supporting the supporters: Teacher well-being in real time

While searching for additional support and resources for her classroom and her own well-being, Lidacka found the Greater Good Educators Community of Practice (CoP). The CoP offered a space for educators across the globe to connect with one another and learn science-based practices focused on purpose, awe, self-compassion, gratitude, and kindness and compassion for others.

For educators like Lidacka, who had already experimented with small, bite-sized SEL practices, the Greater Good Educators CoP created a space to expand on what she already knew. The practices emphasized that teacher sustainability begins with teacher well-being, and the community conversations helped her see she was not alone.

“After these three years, I see among my peers that we are exhausted,” Lidacka says. “More and more often, we are searching for places to debrief or to just sit and talk about how difficult it still is to manage this.”

Alongside learning SEL practices like mindful listening and self-compassion, the educators who joined the CoP were encouraged to practice the shared community invitations of curiosity, compassion, and respect with each other. These invitations helped create a supportive environment where teachers could connect across experiences and process challenges together.

Herasymenko is one of the many educators Lidacka was able to virtually connect with, and she shared similar sentiments about the importance of having an outlet to support her own mental well-being.

“It’s great to have some kind of community of teachers during all these hardships,” Herasymenko says. “Before the war, I didn’t pay so much attention to my well-being, and now I understand that this is an important part of a teacher’s job. To think about taking breaks, to think about how to recharge yourself.”

Educators like Lidacka and Herasymenko are not waiting for ideal conditions to create caring learning environments. They have continued teaching, adapting, and building community through years of uncertainty. SEL initiatives are not a one-size-fits-all cure for the challenges they face, but they offer additional support for work they are already doing. By investing in educators’ well-being, we help sustain the people who make learning, connection, and hope possible—even in the most difficult circumstances.

Scaling up large health programs, working through complex systems, is what we do in global health. Guided by the science of epidemiology, we study how and why disease is distributed. We ask, why does disease “cluster,” affecting certain people, at certain times, in certain places? Understanding these patterns can provide the information needed to reduce the risk of disease and promote human health. So naturally, while listening to Jinpa, we wondered: could the statistical tools and methods of epidemiology also be used to “scale up” compassion? 

Epidemiology is a latecomer to compassion science. Psychologists and neuroscientists have studied compassion for decades. Spiritual traditions have taught compassion for centuries. Collectively, they have focused on cultivating the capacity for compassion in individuals. “Scaling up” requires broadening the field to include institutions, systems, and populations—which is precisely the strength of epidemiology. 

The novel idea that epidemiology might contribute to compassion science faced headwinds. Epidemiologists considered compassion to be too “soft,” too difficult to measure. Epidemiology is a quantitative science after all, for which precise measurement is crucial. On the other hand, compassion scholars and teachers warned that attempts to measure compassion would ruin it. Finding a “middle way” required innovative dialogue and interdisciplinary collaboration. We started with two exploratory meetings at the Task Force for Global Health, a review of the compassion science literature through an epidemiologic lens, and, in March 2026, a special issue of the International Journal of Wellbeing, “Towards an Epidemiology of Compassion”. Our intent was to encourage scholars and thinkers from other disciplines to contribute their insights into how an epidemiologic approach could help to build a more compassionate world.

Challenging questions

While epidemiology has proven its value in public health, we found that applying it to compassion requires wrestling with several fundamental questions. First, do we have the right conceptual framing for compassion at a population level—are we thinking about it in the right way? Compassion educators who regard compassion as an individual human skill are doubtful. Only individuals, they say—not organizations or communities—have the capacity for warm-heartedness, which is necessary for compassion. However, they concede that organizations differ in their capacity to acknowledge suffering and respond with compassion, just as individuals do: Some are more compassionate than others. A reliable framework for understanding why compassion clusters in some organizations or systems more than others could provide clues for nurturing compassion in all organizations.

A second question is whether current epidemiologic and statistical methods are up to the task of analyzing the complexity of factors, interacting at multiple levels, that determine the extent to which compassion is present and how it is expressed. These factors include individual intent; physical, relational, historical, and emotional influences; and environmental and cultural determinants, among others.

Perhaps the most critical question for an epidemiology of compassion is that of measurement: What should be counted? Even at the individual level, measures of compassion rarely capture its essence. A recent scientific review by psychologist Cassandra Vieten and her colleagues found 503 measures of compassion and empathy—evidence that consensus is lacking. At the population level, outside the controlled environment of a laboratory, the challenge is even more complex. Measures of intention, empathic resonance, brain activity, or physiologic changes—which are useful in experimental contexts—are neither feasible nor reliable for studying compassion in populations. Brendan Ozawa-de Silva and Jennifer Mascaro have argued that, at the macro level, compassion can be measured by how well it is institutionalized through policies and actions. But are such policies and actions the same as compassion? Not according to those who insist that compassion is a skill or trait only of individuals, or that, for action to be considered compassionate, we must know that it is motivated by a positive intent. 

Gaining momentum

What began years ago as a vaguely defined notion among a small group of enthusiasts is gaining momentum. As an example, “Towards an Epidemiology of Compassion” featured 23 articles by more than 90 authors from a broad range of disciplines. Significantly, the articles provided much-needed perspective on conceptual frameworks, epidemiologic methods, and measurement. 

Conceptual frameworks. Working independently, several groups have proposed new conceptual frameworks to guide an epidemiology of compassion. Each of these frameworks or conceptual models emphasizes the need to understand how compassion manifests at multiple levels, including the individual, collective, and societal levels. Some of the frameworks describe how compassion “flows” across these levels, while others focus on determinants of compassion at different stages of life. Taken together, these conceptual models highlight the emerging understanding of compassion at the collective level and open new lines of inquiry into collective expressions of compassion—actions that are possible only through the shared intention and coordinated work of many people.

We have argued elsewhere, for example, that the field of global health, which seeks to alleviate and prevent suffering at a global level, is a manifestation of compassion. Exciting recent work on organizational compassion by Ace Simpson, Monica Worline, Jane Dutton, and others goes beyond these frameworks to describe the processes and features that characterize compassionate organizations. These include, for example, compassionate leadership; communication networks that alert staff to the presence of pain or suffering; roles, routines, and social networks that facilitate alleviation of suffering; and the use of physical space to increase staff accessibility and interaction.

Methods. The convenings at the Task Force for Global Health confirmed that epidemiologic methods are well-suited to studying compassion at the institutional and population levels. Methods used in chronic disease epidemiology, in particular, are designed to handle the extraordinary complexity of multiple “risk factors” interacting across different levels and time points. Other epidemiologic methods, such as geospatial analysis, can be used to map where and when specific forms of suffering (such as hunger) occur and whether resources (such as food pantries) have been put in place to address that suffering.

Measures. Although a single ideal measure of compassion remains elusive, significant progress has been made in refining and triangulating measures of compassion, particularly in health care systems. For example, Shane Sinclair and his colleagues have developed companion measures of compassion that take the perspectives of both patients and health care providers. Taking a systems approach, Anupama Jha and her colleagues developed a suite of measures to evaluate the impact of compassion training and health systems transformation in district hospitals in Bihar, India. Beverley Fehr and Susan Sprecher recently applied an epidemiologic lens to synthesize two decades of psychological research that used the same existing measure—the Compassionate Love Scale—and provided fresh insight into the clustering of compassion by time, place, and person.

Looking to the future

Since Jinpa’s keynote address in 2018, we’ve seen a global outpouring of interest in compassion and how it moves through human systems. Along with this interest has come a desire for a scientific approach that can guide research and inform practical efforts to nurture compassion in institutions and systems. Epidemiology contributes a population-level lens to compassion science that can help reveal and quantitatively describe the interplay of factors that enable compassion to arise in specific settings. So, what is needed now for compassion science to realize its potential through epidemiology?

Broaden the conversation. As Jinpa noted, we must reach beyond our own community to broaden the conversation. We must include voices from other disciplines—as well as voices of those who do not align themselves with any academic discipline. Progress on the central challenge of measurement can come only from a thorough understanding of compassion in different cultures and settings, incorporating perspectives across the breadth of human experience. We must learn particularly from Indigenous communities and colleagues in the global South. We need the perspectives of evolutionary anthropologists, sociologists, primate biologists, artists, peacebuilders, spiritual leaders, and theologians. And the conversation should extend more deeply within epidemiology itself, for example, to explore how the tools of infectious disease modeling and social epidemiology can help us understand how compassion is transmitted or spread across populations. 

Conceptual frameworks. There is much to be learned from in-depth exploration and comparison of the new conceptual models of collective compassion. Broadening and deepening the conversation to refine, apply, align, and learn from the new conceptual models can lead to an integrated framework, a conceptual scaffolding for further research and testing of ideas. 

Data. Epidemiology is a data-driven science. Advances in conceptual frameworks inevitably lead to new questions and stimulate the search for data to answer those questions. There is much to be gained from epidemiologic analysis of existing data, as shown by Fehr and Sprecher, as well as from including compassion-related questions in new research on human flourishing, happiness, and well-being. For example, analysis of compassion-related questions in the Global Flourishing Study by Julia Nakamura and her colleagues provides intriguing insight into the spatial distribution of compassion at a global level.

Systems perspective. Compassion science has largely focused on the giving of compassion by individuals. The recent increase in scholarship and interest in self-compassion and receiving compassion from others has opened a rich inquiry into how compassion “flows” across these dimensions, as well as the implications of such flow for well-being and mental health. In unpacking their multi-level framework, James Kirby and his colleagues argue that the systems in which humans live and work not only facilitate or constrain the flow of compassion among individuals, but these systems also serve as “active agents that can give and receive compassion.” While they may not be capable of warm-heartedness, organizations “possess the primary driver of compassion: intention,” and they can be sensitive to suffering and committed to its alleviation. This radical approach opens a new landscape for compassion science, for which epidemiology, with its systems perspective, is well-suited. 

Influence on epidemiology. Historically, epidemiology has overwhelmingly focused on disease and threats to human health. Tyler VanderWeele and his colleagues recently argued that the tools of epidemiology also should be applied to promote human flourishing. An epidemiology of compassion opens the field to a broader “positive epidemiology,” similar to developments in positive psychology. By inviting narratives and first-person accounts of the experience of compassion, epidemiology will be stretched in new ways—not unlike the field of contemplative neuroscience.

Compassion and social justice. The systems perspective of epidemiology, with its attention to populations, leads to the unavoidable question, rarely explored in individual compassion training, whose suffering is to be alleviated? In prompting this question and providing an analytic framework to address and monitor it, epidemiology brings compassion science into much-needed conversation with ethics and social justice. 

We live in a world that seems increasingly polarized. The need for compassion at the institutional and societal levels has never been greater. Applying the epidemiologic toolkit and its systems perspective to compassion science will not be a panacea, but we and others believe that it can make important contributions, just as it has in global health. We look forward to working with others who share this view—and to engaging in conversation with those who don’t. And we are eager to see more writing, thinking, and noticing of the ways that compassion manifests in communities and organizations. These real-world observations and reflections, combined with robust epidemiologic methods, hold the potential to bring us to the next frontier in compassion science—and to answering Jinpa’s question about how to “scale up” compassion.

He’d earned that nickname after spending 14 years collecting definitions of the word “compassion” from passersby in a notebook or on video. This grew out of a personal awakening he had in 2009, when he gave away all of his possessions to devote his life to a higher purpose, one that included living without stable housing, approaching each day without expectation, and embracing simplicity and minimalism.

It seemed a cruel irony that someone who lived and breathed peace and compassion lost his life in such a tragic way. I was devastated, to say the least. Even further: During the early days of my grieving process, I rediscovered a message David had sent me, one he felt he needed to write as he was becoming more of a public figure in Davis: “If I’m ever harmed or unable to speak for myself, forgive the perpetrator and help others forgive that person.”

Not long after, I found myself sitting in a courtroom, yards away from the young man who took David’s life. How could I possibly live up to David’s wish, this close, this personal, still deeply embedded in the grieving process?

I had to try to practice forgiveness. In real time.

I kept coming back to that word: “practice.” I knew I couldn’t expect anyone else to feel the same way as me—this was my own journey.

But there were others I could learn from, people who’d gone through incredibly difficult experiences but still managed to somehow tap into a place of empathy and mercy. I studied the work of Holocaust survivor Eva Kor, who forgave the people who killed her family. I listened to stories by Jack Kornfield, including his 12 Principles of Forgiveness. I learned from Fred Luskin that I had to “be at peace with the vulnerability inherent in human life.”

These were lessons I absorbed, integrated, and put into practice. At first, it was easier said than done. But I had these examples and David’s words to guide me. I also discovered things about the young man who killed David—and found unexpected common ground in our life stories. 

It may sound ludicrous that someone would be open to identifying a common humanity with someone who’s taken the life of a loved one. But that’s exactly what I found myself doing during the course of the trial in May and June of 2025.

Our mother had schizophrenia. So did the person who took David’s life, Carlos Reales Dominguez. However, Carlos had never been diagnosed as schizophrenic—that happened as a result of receiving a psychiatric evaluation during the trial.

There’s more. My mother was from Jamaica, and Carlos was from El Salvador—we all shared immigrant roots, and all grew up in lower-middle-class families in dangerous neighborhoods. David, Carlos, and I had all been honors students. All of us, in our own ways, were survivors. We’d been accepted into college, with Carlos and me both being first-generation attendees.

We’d overcome so much. It made me view Carlos not only through the same lens as David and me, but also that of many of the kids I’d grown up with, where domestic abuse, sexual abuse, food insecurity, and more accumulated into multiple adverse childhood experiences. These, in turn, can increase the likelihood of negative outcomes in adulthood.

Not only did these shared stories deeply move me—I found myself noticing what it took to reach a place of openness to hearing them. It was, once again, practices, including active listening (granted, potentially inherent in a process that involves testimony and evidence), mindfulness, and deep self-reflection, that helped me navigate pain and reckon not only with my humanity but also with someone else’s.

I had to notice my emotions without judgment, recognize biases, and listen, to not only testimony but also the deeper context of suffering in general.

It didn’t interrupt the grieving process. That wasn’t my goal, anyway, and my therapist told me this wasn’t particularly healthy. But what it did do is help me heal a little faster, grieve a little less, and empathize a lot more.

We all play roles and bring our identities, biases, hurts, wants, and needs to painful situations. Because I was primed for it by David’s request to “forgive the perpetrator,” by the work I’d done to learn more about how to practice forgiveness, and by my understanding of severe mental illness because of my mother, perhaps forgiveness came more easily to me.

But I think anyone’s capable, given the time and space, to reach the same place of openness and empathy. It may not happen overnight. But the possibility, I believe, is there, if one looks for it.

The first trial for Carlos resulted in a hung jury. The retrial is now underway. I’m further along in my grieving process. I’ve even started partnering with transformative justice organizations that believe in fair chances for those who’ve committed crimes, as I believe. As civil rights attorney Bryan Stevenson writes in his book, Just Mercy, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

I’m in a good place, still healing, finding purpose. Still, to take care of myself, I’m limiting my involvement with the trial this time around. Come what may, I’m going to be approaching everything with the resources I’ve gained and integrated—and with clear-eyed compassion.

Jean-Michel Robichaud, a psychologist at the Université de Moncton in New Brunswick, studies situations like this when adolescents feel hurt by their parents’ actions. While working as a therapist at Jewish General Hospital in Montreal during his Ph.D. studies, he saw families with damaged relationships—often because of a hurt that occurred when the teen was younger. This led him to be curious about how parent responses to an offense impact family relationships and teen well-being.

In this hypothetical scenario, Sophie—we’ll call her—feels compared to her older brother, who is high-achieving and a good kid, while she is thought of as the rebel in the family. Her parents are worried about her, so they give her less autonomy.

Robichaud wanted to offer his clinical patients research-based advice to help them where they felt stuck in moving forward in a conflict. His research addresses where apologies fit into parenting—whether they’re helpful, and what they should sound like. He wondered how to offer an apology that brings satisfactory resolution and well-being, but he didn’t find many studies on the topic when he began his work.

What apology research says

Previous research supports the idea that apologizing can facilitate forgiveness from those who have been hurt.

Karina Schumann, who was also in her Ph.D. program in the late 2010s, noticed that most work on forgiveness studied the victim’s perspective: “How do people perceive apologies? Does it contribute to forgiveness?” But she wondered about the transgressor’s side of things. “What does it mean to be a person who has harmed someone, and what then moves you toward engaging in a reparative action?”

To fill that gap, Schumann, now a University of Pittsburgh psychologist, began focusing on apologies. “What might influence our willingness to apologize? . . . How can we understand what motivates transgressors to apologize?”

Meanwhile, Robichaud saw that the scant research that existed addressed dynamics other than parenting—such as governmental or institutional apologies and romantic relationships. When he took his first faculty position at the Université de Moncton in New Brunswick in 2022, he became intent on researching apologies in parent and child relationships.

Schumann and Robichaud teamed up. “Right away the results were astonishing. . . . It seems to be something that is very important in parent-child relationships,” says Robichaud.

What prevents apologies?

Schumann wrote about three main barriers to apologizing based on insights from a review of recent research. The most common obstacle pertains to saving face. People protect their self-image. “It’s an icky, uncomfortable feeling for us to face our mistakes. We want to be good people, partners. All of that can make us feel really uncomfortable,” she says.

In the moment we realize our behavior was hurtful, we immediately think of all the reasons why we behaved the way we did. “I’m stressed, tired, or you haven’t done these things for me or supported me. We can create excuses around our behavior, even if we don’t verbalize it,” she says.

Adding to that, many conflicts are characterized by dual responsibility.

“We often feel like we’re not the only ones responsible. We find ourselves in a situation, ‘Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have done that,’ but we have such a strong inclination to want to feel good about ourselves.”

People feel that if they apologize first, it makes them more responsible for the conflict than the other person. “I worry you will think I’m 100% responsible,” explains Schumann. While conflicts are often thought of neatly as having a victim and a transgressor, sometimes both parties are responsible for misbehavior—even though the blame might not be evenly shared.

In another paper, coauthored with her graduate student Anna Vazeou-Nieuwenhuis, Schumann found that more self-compassionate people are less likely to withdraw in shame after they’ve done something wrong. Shame does not lead to forgiveness-seeking, according to a 2013 study led by Calvin University psychologist Blake Riek. When people perceive mistakes to be self-defining, they’re inclined to avoid admitting responsibility in order to protect their self-image, says Schumann. However, people who understand that they will make mistakes and don’t let mistakes define them are more likely to apologize.

Another reason people avoid apologies is that they struggle to empathize with the victim, she writes in the review. MacEwan University psychologist Andrew Howell that people with certain personality traits (like higher self-esteem and compassion) are more willing to apologize, while people with other traits, like narcissism, are less willing. In a series of experiments, Schumann found that people with higher empathy for a romantic partner or friend offered higher-quality apologies rather than defensive responses.

Schumann lists a third restraint: the perception that an apology won’t elicit forgiveness or compassion from the victim. A 2012 study found that transgressors stay attentive to any clues that a victim is willing to repair the relationship and tailor their responses accordingly. 

Different types of apologies

Robichaud refers to apologies as “psychological vitamins”—that’s how good for parents and children he believes them to be. “When you make a mistake, you just created an opportunity to teach several key values to your child and to nurture your relationship with your child,” he says.

However, successful apologies contain specific elements. “The way you phrase your apologies will also be key in reaching forgiveness and all the benefits that come with it . . . both for the one who apologizes and the one who receives,” he says.

Robichaud along with Schumann tested victim-centered apologies and defensive apologies among French-speaking teens in Canada. Victim-centered apologies included things like “I’m sorry,” “What I did was unfair,” “I hurt you,” or “I reacted too quickly.” They even might request forgiveness but without pressuring: “I hope you can forgive me, but I understand if you’re not ready.”

In contrast, defensive apologies fail to empathize with the hurt a teen might feel. They might explain the mistake, justify particular actions—“I did it for your own good”—blame the child, or minimize the hurt—“It was just a joke.” 

The studies tested apologies in a variety of ways, including participants answering questionnaires about their relationship with their parents, writing responses about a particular situation they could recall, and responding to a hypothetical scenario.

Robichaud found that parents who apologize to their children create an environment that cultivates forgiveness. “We have data consistently showing that the more parents do this, the higher the likelihood [adolescents] will forgive, but also the healthier the reasons they will forgive.” In other words, forgiveness is offered freely without the motivation of a controlling parent.

Beyond forgiveness, adolescents who receive parental apologies have higher well-being and act in kind and helpful ways, says Robichaud. When parents apologize, adolescents are more likely to disclose their own mistakes to their parents and less likely to lie.

Taking responsibility in your apology

Sometimes in Robichaud’s clinical work, parents offered apologies that included justifications for their behavior: “You were difficult,” “I was sick,” “Your father wasn’t there.” In the scope of things, he thought that “those seemed like very legitimate reasons, but the families weren’t doing better.”

In the example with Sophie, her parents felt accused of being neglectful and reacted highly defensively. “How can you even say that? We give you so many privileges. You have a TV, and your brother never had one.”

But that kind of response fails to address how the teen feels and instead focuses on the parents’ feelings. What it sounds like to the teen is: “What you are living is not real,” while the parents intended to communicate: “We love you equally.” Teens either react back or close up when parents act defensively, says Robichaud.

“What I noticed is that the families where the parents could find it in themselves to apologize and take accountability for what they had done . . . they were doing much better after months of therapy,” he says.

Later, let’s say the parents realized that their teen’s complaint had some truth in it: “Even though they valued treating their children equally, they failed to do it,” describes Robichaud. He explains how they could offer two apologies: one for their initial reaction and another for their unfairness, while opening a discussion about how to give Sophie the same opportunities that her brother had.

Parents who hope for positive outcomes should leave out any explanation for their behavior. “If you want to apologize, don’t defend yourself at the same time. That’s the equivalent of having done nothing,” says Robichaud. “They might be tempted to defend themselves, minimize the harm that was done, or blame the child—‘if you hadn’t acted so horribly for so long, maybe I wouldn’t have freaked out.’ That defensive language has been shown to have the opposite effect. It increases lying, reducing disclosure, reducing forgiveness.”

Parents can model what it looks like to take responsibility for your mistakes. “You give [teens] the experience of how good it feels to be validated after being hurt,” says Robichaud. “When parents apologize to their children, the more teens or children are inclined to apologize to their parents later. . . . They learn from that.”

What we know—and don’t

The research on apologies is less robust than the psychology of forgiveness, and Robichaud is still working through some remaining questions.

However, one apprehension Robichaud sought to address early on in his research is a popular concern about parent apologies. Some blogs and online advice from clinicians suggest that apologizing to children might undermine parental authority in some way. When parents apologize, it upsets the typical power dynamic: Parents must put themselves in a position of weakness. Some wondered if that shift creates an insecure environment and leads to a passive-aggressive pressure for the child to forgive their parents. Though appearing humble, apologizing may actually be controlling.

In a separate paper, Robichaud and Schuman tested for that in multiple ways but didn’t find any significant effect that apologies had on parental authority.

“When you apologize, you tap into the relational trust, bond, care, love, but you don’t tap into the hierarchy rules or respect,” says Robichaud. “It’s not about that. It’s about repairing the bond that has been broken, the relational damage, the trust that has been hindered by the mistake.”

Robichaud also wants to know: Could severe cases of abuse or chronic patterns of mistreatment diminish the benefits of apologies? “What happens when it’s a cycle or the parent repeats the same mistake over and over? Are words enough? Do they lose their power?” he asks. Additionally, while he started his research among teens, he’s interested in understanding parent apologies to younger children.

What Robichaud is sure of: All parents make mistakes. “The list of factors that can bring even the best of the best of parents to make a mistake goes into the hundreds. There are so many factors that have been identified as a risk factor that can impact the quality of parenting behaviors. There are too many factors at play for a parent to expect they can be perfect,” he says.

“Every parent has bad parenting moments,” says Robichaud, especially considering various cultural factors around parenting, common childhood struggles, and pressures outside the home, such as work-related stress. “They do have consequences, but that’s where parents have control. They will make mistakes—they can’t realty control that—but when they do, they can apologize. How parents respond to the mistake can determine whether the mistake will have a negative effect or a less negative effect.”

One group drops seafaring formalities and coalesces around collective survival. They tend to each other, work together, and split what they have. Each person’s subsistence is tied to the other’s.

The other crew maintain their maritime hierarchy, compete for power and status, hoard resources—and ultimately turn on each other.

Everyone from the first crew survives. Most from the second group die from various ailments and unfortunate incidents, including cannibalism. 

That’s a scenario based on real historical examples that is sketched by John Cacioppo, Harry Reis, and Alex Zautra in their 2011 paper entitled “Social Resilience.” In this article, the authors explain their approach to developing a training program for U.S. Army personnel meant to help them function better in teams.

The premise? Human survival depends on being able to turn toward each other under difficult circumstances and join forces to identify, avoid, or address challenges and catastrophes. Our ability to coordinate effort in response to shared threats is an evolutionary mandate for ultrasocial creatures like humans. Born helpless and lacking physically dominant features like giant apex predator teeth, the authors write, “Our remarkable accomplishments as a species are attributable to our collective action, not our individual might.”

Stephanie Brown of the Stony Brook Neuroscience Institute attributes this collaborative sensibility to “fitness interdependence”: my survival depends on yours, theirs, and, to some degree, ultimately, everyone’s. Because the harm from some threats to survival and reproduction is distributed to everyone (like crop dusting to cull agricultural pests), our human nervous system is sensitive to others’ vulnerability, and so driven to protect the group from shared threat.

The biological and psychological processes underlying these features include being able to synchronize our bodies and behaviors (e.g., empathy), feeling innately compelled to share joy and relieve each other’s pain (e.g., social capitalizing, compassion), and celebrating heroic virtues like helping one another and working to make the world a better place. Serving each other’s welfare through caregiving, protection from harm, and relief of suffering, it turns out, is fundamentally rewarding and healthy. Many studies have reported activation in the brain’s reward pathways that signal pleasure after behaving generously—the “warm glow.” People who spend more hours volunteering experience less disease and live longer, for example. Like any other ability, prosocial and altruistic tendencies are also shaped over the course of life by culture and context, both of which can increase or suppress how prominently they show up within any given person, society, or period of time.

According to Cacioppo, Reis, and Zautra, each person attending to their own needs and being able to cope with and protect themself does not ensure group success, and can actually lessen the probability of individual success over the long run. It’s wrong to assume that each individual’s resilience will naturally ladder up to group-wide resilience.

Instead, they call for social resilience, which means acknowledging and documenting stress and harm coming from higher-order, even existential threats, beyond the sum of how each person might feel about their own lives. Further, it means investigating and tracking sources and contributing factors that are often systemic (policy, neighborhood design), invisible (culture, historical precedence), or vast (climate, natural disasters). Once we understand causes, we can work together to help the group recover and ensure future well-being. 

Other scholars have also used the term social resilience since this 2011 paper, though disciplines tend not to define it in the same way.

In public health, for example, social resilience often refers to aspects of a person’s environment and resources like whom they live with, what their level of income is, or whether they have access to health care and education. There are well-established links between these factors and an individual’s resilience—that is, their capacity to recover from or learn and grow from stress and adversity in healthy ways. Many people have dedicated their lives to improving equitable access to these resources for the betterment of humanity.

Articles also use the terms “community resilience”—measured by survey questions like “People in my community help each other during crises”—and “national resilience,” which refers to a group’s ability to handle crises. A 2013 paper by Markus Keck and Patrick Sakdapolrak offers this high-level definition: “Social resilience is the ability of social entities, that is, individuals, organizations or communities, to resist, adapt to, and recover quickly from disasters.”

Studies suggest that social resilience is not unique to humans. The prosocial underpinnings of social resilience were alluded to by none other than Charles Darwin, who concluded that “those communities [of animals and other creatures], which included the greatest number of the most sympathetic members, would flourish best, and rear the greatest number of offspring.”

For example, insects are the most populous species on earth, and the most populous insects are ants. Ants rapidly adjust and adapt to demands and threats to the colony in seamlessly coordinated ways: They’ll make a raft from their bodies for all to survive a flood. While humans, too, can detect, monitor, and band together to fix the existential crises we face, that’s a path we need to consciously choose and pursue.

Evolutionary psychologist David Sloan-Wilson, professor of biology and anthropology at Binghamton University and founder and president of ProSocial World, thinks so, too. His work highlights the importance of interpersonal trust, a key facet of social resilience, for working together toward shared goals. Further, he describes how evolution has favored biological features that enable group-wide, collaborative, even amicable adaptation to environmental challenges:

Only when we could trust our social partners to work toward shared goals could we rely upon them to share meaningful information. Our ability to function as team players is reflected in anatomical features such as the whites of the human eye, which turn it into an organ of communication, and in basic cognitive skills such as the ability to point things out to others and to laugh in a group context, in addition to more advanced cognitive and cultural abilities.

More attention has been paid to investigating and strengthening resilience for individuals than for organizations or communities. Of course, individual resilience matters, and is certainly worth cultivating. For people who are more resilient, symptoms of stress don’t last as long, and upsetting personal experiences morph into fodder for meaningful learning and growth.

There are biological (e.g., greater heart rate variability), life context (e.g., safer neighborhoods), and behavioral (e.g., self-compassion, optimism) factors that influence a person’s individual resilience, and social life also plays a formative role. For example, people with loving, supportive caregivers early in life tend to get through hardship more easily, and people who have close relationships with friends and family tend to handle losses and setbacks more gracefully.

With some know-how and regular practice, most people can improve their own resilience. We can learn strategies for restoring calm and coping with difficulty, engage with uplifting activities, or adopt outlooks like gratefulness or optimism that buffer against despair. We can enrich and strengthen our interpersonal ties by offering and asking for compassion, and being more curious and humble.

But some sources of stress—like widespread ideological polarization, rampant social inequality, global pandemics, natural disasters, terrorist attacks, and warfare—aren’t just about you or me. They’re inescapably about all of us. While it can be convenient or momentarily comforting to avoid or dismiss, harm to people in one place imposes stress on everyone, like stories of violent crime spreading through social media.

Resilience to these broader shared threats requires more than what it takes to be individually resilient one person at a time. It requires us to clearly see the hazy collective weight that we all, regardless of privilege or power and to different degrees in any given moment, bear from shared sources of harm. It involves channeling our pooled stress toward teaming up—coming together to confront, document, address, and solution-find for the benefit of us all. It also involves documenting and accounting for the true costs of ignoring or escalating the sources to shared harm, such as extractive or exploitative practices or profiteering at the expense of collective well-being.

But how do we humans cultivate social resilience? In their paper, Cacioppo, Reis, and Zautra offer a list of nine personal resources for social resilience that can be strengthened with practice. I think their suggestions can be distilled into three actionable steps each person can take to contribute to social resilience.

1. Tune into, trust, and connect with people

Exercise your empathy muscles by paying more attention to other people’s expressions, noticing how this feels in your own body, and trying to understand what the others are feeling and why. Try to assume goodwill and look for common ground and shared humanity with others. You might even make a list of qualities, characteristics, or experiences you share with others, or reflect on times when you supported someone, or someone supported you. Marvel at all the ways that people seamlessly coordinate effort to make everyday life both interesting and full of opportunity. Make time for open-minded and honest conversations about meaningful issues, topics, and life experiences with people. Join group or community activities centered around creative expression, play, or activism that addresses unmet needs.

2. See the struggle, and do the best you can to help

When you encounter harm, try to discover ways that it may also harm you. Notice how that feels deep down. Ask how it reduces prosperity and the common good (such as loss of potential and progress, or costliness of repair). While honoring the self-protective urge to avoid or escape, aim instead to direct your inner tension toward approaching and doing whatever you can to remedy the situation. Try to offer help, even if it feels inconvenient, costly, untimely, or unpromising. Be more curious and humble about the context of harm and how you can be most helpful. Ask yourself: “Can I leave this shared circumstance, system, or space better than I found it?” Let the meaningful belonging gained from actively contributing to your community strengthen your heroic impulse to fix the world’s vexing challenges together with other people.

3. Constructively problem-solve and reconcile

Hone your cooperative mentality. In whatever settings you find yourself, try to work together with people to learn what each other’s pain points and threats are, and openly discuss where they might be coming from. Inquire and analyze how existing structures, policies, systems, and settings affect day-to-day experiences among the people you encounter, and crowdsource ideas for improvement. Exercise skills like labeling feelings clearly and authentically, and offering an effective apology to learn, grow, and deepen interpersonal connections even after disagreement or conflict. Ask for help, knowing that most people feel uplifted and honored by the opportunity to do something that matters. Uplift group morale and creativity by encouraging shared positive emotional experiences like moral elevation and amusement, and celebrating team successes. Leverage the varied perspectives and strengths from a diverse group to discover truly collaborative, innovative, and effective-long term solutions to shared challenges.

There are also contextual opportunities for scaffolding social resilience within a neighborhood or city, like designing free and inclusive spaces for people to gather in recreational, celebratory, and awe-inspiring ways (e.g., parks, community events). Safe, inviting opportunities for storytelling and public dialogue around key issues and concerns also improve social resilience. Increasing social resilience, in turn, can shape civic institutions in ways that benefit everyone. According to the “Well-being and State Effectiveness” chapter of the 2023 World Happiness Report, countries that routinely channel resources toward common interests (e.g., improving social well-being) score significantly higher on a composite measure of national prosperity that includes per capital income, collective capacity, and more peaceableness.

Social resilience, like individual resilience, takes practice. As a bipedal species, we are equipped with the innate urges to roll, scoot, crawl, then walk, but if we want to walk bravely into older adulthood, we cannot just passively expect it. We cannot just sit comfortably all day. Regular physical activity is crucial to lifelong health and longevity. The same goes for social resilience: Getting better at seeing the shared burden that broader, more pervasive problems impose and prioritizing coming together to support one another and find solutions take regular practice, which may not always feel easy or convenient.

Rejuvenating and investing in social resilience means explicitly studying and documenting the shared harm of widespread, existential threats and joining forces to solve them—to preempt avoidable destruction, and to help each other recover from painful disasters. Would systematically measuring, educating, and optimizing for social resilience promise a better, smarter, less wasteful future? Leaning into how we naturally synchronize emotionally, perceptually, and behaviorally—and using our inborn “forest in the trees” capacity to see the world through a more global, long-term, course-of-human-survival lens—social resilience could amplify our potential to mobilize together to address threats and find fixes that can, while minimizing harm, protect and uplift us all.

Buddy the dog and Snuggles the bunny are two of the five resilience habit animals that children at a Milwaukee school are learning to help themselves thrive. Buddy reminds kids they are not alone, and Snuggles represents kindness.

A violence prevention grant brought me into kindergarten through third-grade classrooms in early 2025 to help children use mindfulness and self-compassion practices to self-regulate, and we just wrapped up our time together. In my work as a teacher, I found myself learning just as much from them as they did from me about how these skills take root.

If you are a parent, teacher, or clinician, you might wonder how to translate abstract concepts like mindfulness and self-compassion into something a seven year old can actually use. Over a decade of teaching these skills in classrooms and with families, I’ve found that playful animal characters, when practiced in relationship, can become a voice children can carry inside to help them face hard moments with kindness.

Identifying your animal character

When I teach a lesson, I observe what causes children to lean in, and what makes them push back or disengage. One major thing I’ve observed is that kids love learning from animal characters and other kids. A group of children helped me create the Mindfulness and Self-Compassion Workbook for Kids, which features animal characters and real kids sharing their experiences throughout the two-volume series. Children also taught me that they enjoy activities that are playful and authentic.

This has been true across different contexts, including the Milwaukee school I’m working in, where 97% of students live in poverty and 1 in 5 have a special education plan. In my first year in the school, there was a large second-grade classroom that had a lot of self-regulation challenges and diverse reading abilities. Nonetheless, when I shared images from the workbook of animals or real kids talking about their feelings, students’ hands would soar in the air to read their quotes and share their own experiences on the interactive whiteboard.

We started our lessons each school year with an animal quiz. Our first year, kids did the Feelings Habit Animal quiz to uncover their habits around feelings. During our lesson time together, kids learn about five different patterns: Bear explodes with feelings, Beaver obsesses about feelings, Chameleon hides feelings, Deer feels ashamed of feelings, and Flame the dragon has a mix of these habits. The feelings habit animals offer children the opportunity to observe their patterns around feelings without judgment.

Sometimes at the beginning of a lesson, we play games of charades to playfully act out the animal habits. Kids feel affection toward the feelings animals, and they also know that each animal represents feelings habits of themselves and their classmates. Observing their own behaviors through an animal lens provides cognitive distance that can pave the way for wiser choices over time.

Once children have a way to notice what they are experiencing, the next step is learning how to respond. Our second year, students took the Resilience Habit Animal quiz to identify the animal habits that felt helpful when they struggle. Kristin Neff describes self-compassion as having three core components: mindfulness, common humanity, and self-kindness. In my work with kids, these components come to life through three resilience habit animals: Spots the giraffe helps kids notice their feelings, body sensations, and five senses; Buddy the dog reminds kids they are not alone; and Snuggles the bunny represents kindness.

Play is the language of children, and this is especially true for self-compassion. While kids are generally uninterested in practicing self-compassion when it’s called self-compassion, they are often eager to try the “Spots habit” or the “Buddy habit.” Not only are kids more engaged in the practices, but some kids report imagining the animals’ voices in their minds when they are struggling. This is true both in the classrooms I teach in as well as in research on the Mindfulness and Self-Compassion for Children and Caregivers program, which I developed as an adaptation of Neff and Christopher Germer’s Mindful Self-Compassion program.

Each year, I saw students eagerly engage with the quiz to find out which animals they had an affinity toward. Once they did, they felt more curious about the animals’ habits, and especially connected to “their” animals. While I didn’t know it at the time, there’s research that suggests that using animals to teach children can help them acquire social-emotional skills at an early age.

Animal stories, role plays, and songs

Modeling and practice between sessions are essential for building these habits, but without time for educator training, I had to get creative about helping kids practice more during our time together. I partnered with Brienne Barrows-Gallardo, a gifted early education teacher who works with preschoolers with autism, to help me develop engaging materials kids could use to practice.

We wrote a story for each resilience habit animal so kids could see the helpful habits in action. Then my own children helped me create story videos and songs, which aided kids in internalizing the resilience animals’ voices. I also made role-play kits with different phrases each animal could say.

For example, in one story, Flame the dragon was feeling upset, and Buddy reminded her that everyone feels upset sometimes. Because Flame can have multiple feelings habits, kids were able to choose how she responded using the choices in the role-play kit.

The children also had a picture of Buddy the dog to decorate or color, along with phrases that Buddy might say to soothe them.

As kids colored, the classroom teacher and I moved about the room engaging in role plays with them. One of my favorite moments was hearing the teacher pretend to be Flame with big Bear feelings, and a kindergartner responded, “Ms. B., it’s OK to feel like this. Everyone gets upset sometimes.”

Another week, after talking about how Bear has big feelings, the kids and I did a group role play on the carpet helping Bear with the Snuggles habit. Then the kids had the opportunity to decorate Snuggles the bunny while we rotated around to practice. A child who often has big feelings didn’t like how she was coloring her page, so she ripped her paper in half and threw it on the floor. I walked over to her desk, and acknowledged that she was having big feelings. She looked up at me, and her eyes flashed with recognition. She was having the Bear habit! Instead of spiraling, as she often does, she picked up her paper, and we taped it back together. This is the power of awareness.

The feelings habit animals not only help kids with awareness (the Spots habit), they also help kids to feel less alone with big feelings. Kids know that other kids share their feelings habits, and, in this way, common humanity (the Buddy habit) is linked with the animal.

Barrows-Gallardo also created social stories that could be used with the children with autism in her classroom. Research suggests that using animal characters can help children on the autism spectrum learn social-emotional skills. In the classrooms, I noticed that a number of neurodivergent children were highly engaged in learning about the resilience and feelings habit animals. One child astutely observed that we didn’t need to practice the feelings animal habits because they are already “built in.”

Children also loved embodying the action-oriented resilience animals, like Super Snuggles and Doodles the dolphin. Doodles encourages kids to take helpful actions like moving their body and trying their best.

When they step into these animal roles, children aren’t just learning the habits; they are becoming them. Research has found a similar effect: When children imagine themselves as strong or capable characters like Batman, they are more likely to persist through challenges.

One parent whose son did the Mindfulness and Self-Compassion Workbook for Kids told me that her son, who also had the Bear habit, had to do vision therapy. He had a little stuffed bear that represented the bear from the workbook that had big feelings. When he felt frustrated with his vision therapy, he would look at his bear, and it would comfort him. For him, seeing his bear feelings animal helped him remember “I am not alone” and “I can handle this.”

The role of the caregiver

As beautiful as it is to see children practicing self-compassion with the animal characters, I know it’s not enough for the practice to fully take root. The work we started through the violence prevention grant will only go deeper if the teachers understand, practice, and reinforce self-compassion next school year. The principal of the school and I are trying to arrange inservices for the teachers next year to help them grow their own self-compassion practice and support students with continued practice. This is because my relational four-step framework for helping kids grow self-compassion begins with the caregiver.

As parents, teachers, and caregivers, the best place to begin is with our own mindfulness and self-compassion practice. We can do this alongside a child, or on our own. When we model being mindful of struggles, it helps kids remember that everyone struggles sometimes. And when we model self-kindness, it helps kids learn to do the same. Children learn from watching us say, “I feel upset, and I know that everyone gets upset sometimes. I’m going to be OK.”

Kids also internalize how caregivers speak to them. We want to be the voices of Buddy and Snuggles, reminding kids, “You’re not alone. I care about you.” There are many ways to help kids grow self-compassion in daily life, and our presence is just as important as our words.

Self-compassion takes root through supportive relationships and playful animals that bring it to life. From Sesame Street to Daniel Tiger to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, children have always learned emotional skills through the characters they love. Over time, these characters can become something even more powerful: a compassionate inner voice that children carry with them for life.

Can you teach someone to provide care that isn’t simply accepting of differences, but actually tends to all the ways those differences are impacting a patient’s health? 

The faculty at Samford University’s McWhorter School of Pharmacy can. In fact, they must. They’re required to do so by the accreditation body that sets the standards for the education of pharmacists.

In addition to teaching students information like the physicochemical properties of drugs or the mathematical calculations involved in dosing, pharmacy programs are required to help their students develop complex interpersonal skills such as cultural and structural humility, advocacy, and interprofessional collaboration. The Accreditation Council for Pharmacy Education requires that all pharmacy programs prepare students to provide “whole-person care.”

Whole-person care, according to the World Health Organization, requires that providers learn to see that a patient’s health is not just the result of biomedical factors. Psychosocial, cultural, and environmental forces also shape our well-being. Providing whole-person care means crafting treatment plans that address all of those forces. It’s impossible to provide this kind of integrated care without strong interpersonal skills. Graduates of accredited pharmacy schools—like other institutions that train health care professionals—must know how to “actively engage, listen, and communicate” and “to mitigate health disparities by considering, recognizing, and navigating cultural and structural factors.”

How, exactly, does an institution help students engage with each patient as a person with their own needs, beliefs, and cultural norms and as a person whose health might be impacted by structural forces like environmental racism or anti-fat bias? The McWhorter School of Pharmacy offers a helpful model in teaching people to care in complex, comprehensive ways for people who are different from them.

The “other culture” assignment

Jonathan Thigpen has come up with creative, impactful strategies for teaching these skills during his tenure as assistant dean of Samford University’s McWhorter School of Pharmacy.

Thigpen and his colleagues have crafted a curriculum in whole-person care that runs throughout a doctoral student’s time at Samford. One of the assignments he gives first-year students—the “other culture” assignment—is emblematic of this work. Thigpen created the assignment in response to an unsettling observation. Across many years of teaching, he noticed in his students a growing reluctance to get out of their comfort zones. He says he saw an “increasing unwillingness to try something new, to take a risk, to put yourself out there.” It was disconcerting because, as Thigpen says, “you have to be able to do that as a health care provider.”

The assignment involves:

• Visiting a site or event that is part of an “other” culture. It can be any culture about which the student is curious; it just has to be different from the student’s own background. The student should ask permission to attend if necessary.
• Staying immersed and present for at least one hour. The student must go have an individual experience. They can’t bring a friend or go with a group of people from class. The student must stay off of their phone and avoid taking photos, pictures, and notes or do anything else that might take them out of the experience or make them seem like a “tourist” in the place.
• Writing a two- to three-page reflection essay. The reflection should connect the student’s experience to topics they have discussed in class, covered in readings, or analyzed in other assignments. The results were remarkable. Samford is a private Christian university outside Birmingham, Alabama, and many of Thigpen’s students use this assignment as an opportunity to experience a new faith community. Protestant students have attended Catholic services. Catholics have attended Protestant services. Other students have chosen to experience events or spaces associated with classes, races, and genders other than their own. One young woman went to a car auction, an event that’s typically more popular with men. Another student who has a white-collar career ate lunch at a blue-collar cafeteria.

Sometimes the “other” culture a student chooses to experience is one that they’ve been taught to fear or avoid. One student grew up with a family member who had a gambling problem, and they had been warned of the dangers of gambling for as long as they could remember. They had never stepped foot inside a casino but harbored plenty of curiosity. This assignment afforded them the opportunity to better understand a place that held such charge for their family. 

Overwhelmingly, students report having positive experiences and share significant insights about the power of connecting with different people and cultures. An international student who chose to visit a cattle stockyard in Texas noticed there’s a big difference between consuming media about a place and interacting with it themselves. In their paper, they observed, “Even though I have heard and seen a lot about Texas, it felt so different when I experienced it in real life. I think to know a culture, it is not enough to just watch their movies or read about them in magazines. What we feel and experience when interacting with them or join[ing] some of their traditional events is so much more valuable.” 

When a white student visited a Black church, they realized that encountering other cultures can be easier than expected. They noted, “This experience taught me that all my anxiety about being in a different cultural setting was my own issue. I was surrounded by people different from me, yet everyone treated me like family. No one cared about the color of my skin, and I realized that my initial fears had been unnecessary. I had worried that my presence might be disrespectful, but, instead, I was welcomed with kindness.”

After administering the “other culture” assignment for many years, Thigpen made an unexpected observation. Students don’t need to encounter a dramatically different culture or bridge an emotionally charged divide in order for the cross-cultural experience to have a deep impact. Sometimes crossing a small bridge can create big change.

Take Briana Watson’s story. Watson decided to visit a European antique store that happened to be owned by a member of the Samford faculty—a white woman of European descent. Watson is Black and hails from a small town a few hours outside of Birmingham.

Watson recalled feeling a bit guarded as she first entered the store. Her body remembered childhood excursions to stores full of delicate items, being told to hold still and don’t touch anything. But when she stepped through the doors, her professor warmly welcomed her and the tension melted away. Watson and the professor struck up a conversation and discovered they share more in common than they expected.

“There was so much to unpack beyond the antiques,” Watson said. “She comes from a military family as do I,” she remembered, “so really connecting over the understanding of service and the love of service and the work ethic that comes behind that started to bridge the gap.”

Watson started the day thinking I’m going to see my professor, but, by the end of the visit, she had a level of connection and trust that became the foundation for a deep, long-lasting relationship. Watson ended up returning to the store many times. This professor became one of her most trusted mentors, and they even went to Spain together on a study abroad trip.

The experience helped Watson develop an awareness of the ways in which the roles of professor and student or pharmacist and patient can create a structure or hierarchy that isn’t always useful when you need to build trust or ask for support. She explained, “I think when we’re always in these structured learning environments, we tend to look at our relationships as that structured dynamic, too. After breaking away from that and . . . getting to know more about her culture, we’re more inclined now to ask her questions if we need help. We’re more inclined to just sit in her office and talk now.”

The experience also gave Watson a chance to reflect on how someone creates an interpersonal encounter that actually feels welcoming and fosters connection. She wants to carry those lessons into her work as a pharmacist. “What stuck with me the most,” she said, “is how I have to be intentional about creating that space with anyone, whether it be a friend or a patient. . . . It’s more about leaning in and asking the follow-ups and being intentional and also having the humility to accept viewpoints that are different than your own. It’s like, OK, this is the person that I want to be in the world and I’m going to make strides towards that.”

Noticing who we want to be in the world and taking repeated action to become that version of ourselves are important components of character development. It’s clear that Watson engaged with the “other culture” assignment as a character-building experience. That’s no accident.

Designing for character development

Character scientist Elise Dykhuis notes several features built into Thigpen’s assignment that make it more likely that students have a character-building experience instead of a simply memorable one, whether you’re looking to strengthen your own capacity to care across differences or you’re responsible for helping develop the character of others.

Establish trust and relevance. If you’re designing an experience for someone else and especially if you’re making it mandatory, like Thigpen does, take the time to build a foundation of trust. All Samford pharmacy first-year students take the “Foundations of Health and Pharmacy” series, and this assignment comes toward the end of the semester, after students have been through lectures and readings about bias and cultural humility. Thigpen has had time to build trust with his class, demonstrating the curiosity, intellectual humility, patience, and empathy that he wants his students to exercise.

He has also introduced why this experience is relevant to their professional development. He establishes it as an opportunity to do something that researchers call “self-expansion.” Research finds that there are many benefits to understanding difference not only as something to tolerate or to manage, but as an opportunity to learn, to broaden one’s perspective, and to expand the self. When people have strong motives to self-expand and they anticipate growth from an interaction, they report greater interest in engaging with people from different groups and they show patterns consistent with more high-quality contact in their interactions with people from different groups.

Leverage curiosity and autonomy. This assignment is driven by curiosity. Thigpen asks his students to consider their own curiosities. Are there cultures or groups of people that have stoked their curiosity? Curiosity gives students the leverage to get over the barrier of discomfort and take the first step. Students are also afforded the autonomy to choose the experience they want to have. Dykhuis explains that, according to self-determination theory, autonomy is one of the key factors “when we’re thinking about what we can use to promote intrinsic motivation in the long run, which is what we really need as adults in order to change something about ourselves or develop ourselves.”

Reflect. Thigpen’s reflection paper is key to the assignment’s efficacy. Dykhuis notes that multiple literatures about self-development stress the importance of reflecting on an experience right after it happens, but we often struggle to provide ourselves with the opportunity to do it. If we pause, reflect, and make meaning after an encounter, we’re more likely to let ourselves be changed by it. 

Prioritize encouragement and enjoyment. Thigpen’s assignment is a one-time experience, but there are things we can add to the experience to help encourage longer-term development. As Dykhuis and her colleagues explain, the personality and character change research says if we want people to change or develop on their own long-term, encouragement and enjoyment are key. Encouragement comes from being integrated into a community and forming relationships. When we’re part of a community of other practitioners and practitioners-in-training (like the pharmacy students are), we’re reminded to stick with it. When we build connections to people whom we care about, they help keep us accountable. Plus, we’re surrounded by people modeling the attitudes and skills we want to develop.

Don’t forget the fun. Many students report that once they muster up the courage to try their first formal bridging encounter, they realize that it’s not as hard as they thought it would be. It’s actually quite enjoyable to connect with people who are different from them and to have new experiences.

No one is going to learn how to provide whole-person care over the course of one semester. It could take an entire career of deep dedication to live up to the standard of care that professional organizations like the American Association of Colleges of Pharmacy and the American Pharmacists Association set for their fields. The systemic factors that shape social determinants of health are complex and dynamic. The contexts in which health care providers meet and tend to patients are ever-changing. However, when we focus on developing the character strengths we need to connect across differences, we can keep building our capacity to meet and care for people where they are, in their full complexity. And, as a bonus, we get to bring the courage, curiosity, intellectual humility, patience, and empathy that we’ve cultivated into other areas of our lives, as well. How fun is that?!

To my right, a friend of Jamie’s struck up a conversation with my mom. They looked like an incongruous pair: a five-foot-tall Chinese American grandmother, with short silver hair, and him a six-foot-plus-tall white young man, bending his head so he could hear her faint voice over the music and party chatter. I leaned closer to listen in. She inquired about his undergraduate major in economics and philosophy, and shared that she’d received a Ph.D. in economics herself, with a focus on demography.

Their conversation struck me at the time as an anomaly. He listened with courtesy and interest, asked polite follow-up questions about her demographic interests, and didn’t seem the least bit eager to cut it short to join his peers. Did he realize that Gen Z wasn’t supposed to behave this way? According to social media and many commentators, they are supposed to be scared to talk to strangers and buried in their phones, too stunted by social anxiety and naval gazing to engage with the world around them. After all, this generation grew up in a “challenging and constantly changing global environment,” as Nisreen Ameen and colleagues note in a 2023 paper—which is one of the factors that led them to experience higher levels of depression, anxiety, and loneliness than prior generations. 

But over the course of the weekend, I encountered young person after young person who seemed open to learning and evolving. They were engaged in creative discovery and expression, seeking to change their community for the better, deeply caring about their peers and the relationships they had made in the previous four years.

“Obies” (as Oberlin students are called) aren’t alone. A series of in-depth interviews on multiple college campuses found that “the typical Gen Zer is a self-driver who deeply cares about others, strives for a diverse community, is highly collaborative and social, values flexibility, relevance, authenticity, and non-hierarchical leadership,” according to research led by Stanford University professor Roberta Katz. A McKinsey & Co. analysis of the newest members of the workforce, a few years ahead of this year’s graduating seniors, describes them as “socially progressive dreamers” who are pragmatic, seeking purpose, and deeply concerned about climate change and inequality.

As these new graduates navigate the months and years ahead, I reflected, these characteristics will serve them as well as any of the facts and figures they’ve learned in college. I left the graduation weekend thinking that, perhaps, the future is in good hands after all with the newest generation of workers and future leaders. Could it be that the reinforcements have arrived?

A gloomy future?

This graduation season has been marked by doom and gloom. Amid the bleak job market, disruption from artificial intelligence, and global violence, new graduates could be forgiven for embarking on their foray into the working world with trepidation. Indeed, commencement speeches on the promise of AI drew boos from the graduating seniors at other universities, such as the University of Arizona, where former Google CEO Eric Schmidt received a not-so-warm response.

I admit that I’ve harbored some fears about how my children will navigate the future, too. After all, I wrote an entire book about the dramatic increase in mental and behavioral disorders in this generation, and spent over a decade in journalism covering how economic disruption affected working families and their pocketbooks.

It’s a perfect storm of uncertainty: social, economic, geopolitical, and technological change like a black cloud over this time of transition. One student told me that she’d sent out over a hundred resumes, with not a single response. Throughout the graduation weekend, I resisted asking seniors I encountered about their plans for the future, for fear of bringing up an anxiety-laden topic. It gave me a pang to sense the unease in the air, when I’d wish that new graduates feel the world is at their feet, with many possible promising paths ahead for career and life.

Oberlin holds a unique place among institutions of higher learning, being the first to admit women and the first to admit Black students. The tradition of social action continues today. The college achieved a goal of carbon neutrality in 2025 and hosted student demonstrations against the war in Gaza over the past two years.

Students continue to push the administration on divestment from war, support for undocumented and immigrant students, preventing sexual assault, and supporting student-run housing and meal cooperatives. They complain that the college leadership focuses more on revenue and growth than Oberlin’s core values, both the president and the board of trustees, which denied the student divestment proposal.

At this year’s graduation ceremonies, when the chair of the board of trustees took the stage, the graduating class stood up and turned their backs to him. For the duration of his remarks, they held white pieces of paper in the air bearing a variety of messages, such as “Protect Trans Students” and “Divest from Genocide” and “Become a Sanctuary Campus.” When they crossed the stage to accept their diplomas, a number of students handed the paper to Oberlin President Carmen Ambar before shaking her hand. I was impressed at the respectful display of their principles, a compromise between outright boos and doing nothing.

At a picnic hosted by the Oberlin Student Cooperative Association, I saw this confident leadership on display again. The student-run, non-profit corporation feeds and houses many Oberlin students, including my son, serving up giant vats of lentils, trays of bread, and other hearty fare three times a day through the school year. The commitment is significant: five shifts a week on a planning, cooking, or clean-up crew, and shared decision making.

Jamie had already told us about the experience of voting on policy changes, which had to be unanimous—meaning deliberations could truly drag on. His coop involvement made sense with our family’s values of hard work and community service: My husband Brian served as a captain in the U.S. Public Health Service, which paid for the vast majority of Jamie’s college tuition, through the G.I. Bill.

The outgoing OSCA president, a graduating senior, gave a speech as professional as any I’ve heard through most of my career, thanking that day’s crew for feeding hundreds of alums, graduating students, and families; sharing the organization’s mission; and updating the assembled picnickers on lease negotiations with the college administration. She thanked her leadership team and her mother, and her poise gave me a flash-forward of the future day when she might be leading a political campaign or acknowledging donors to a nonprofit.

Creativity and connection

Art and music threaded throughout the graduation weekend. We walked through the senior art studios and photography lab, admiring the innovative collages, black-and-white photography, and textured prints exploring a range of themes: identity, relationship, nature, and design. At a showcase for graduating film students, we watched short films exploring interpersonal relationships, the impact of a hoarder’s death on her daughter, and an Oberlin conductor’s connections between his Venezuelan roots and the music of Dmitri Shostakovich, who composed under the thumb of the Soviet government.

One short documentary about couples who met late in life, filmed at the Kendal retirement community abutting the campus, struck me in its portrayal of how these relationships can be ones of convenience or deep love, depending on the situation. I felt surprised that a college student would find old-age love a compelling topic, and that the filmmaker succeeded in drawing out 80-somethings to discuss their sex lives, loneliness, and other intimate topics. Talking later to the student, I discovered that her professor had encouraged her to trim the film to 15 minutes, but she couldn’t bear to cut any more portions of her interviews.

In the film showcase and throughout the campus, visual arts shone, as well: delicate animations that conveyed the passing of time and eye-catching graphics and murals. Our oldest daughter remarked that students generally seemed engaged in conversation, not buried in their phones. When festivities hit a lull, I’d often turn around to find my son and his friends engaged in a game of cards or Scattergories.

Their house seemed like a revolving door of housemates, relatives, neighbors, and friends, including recent graduates returning to celebrate the next crop of Obies. Everyone was unfailingly friendly and kind, greeting me and my parents with interest, engaging Jamie’s sisters in conversation, and open to getting to know anyone who happened to be in the same space. When tables or counters became crowded with dirty plates and cups, there always seemed to be a student taking out the trash or doing dishes. And they cheered each other on by attending each other’s screenings, recitals, concerts, sports games, and open studios.

I left the weekend feeling unexpectedly moved by the other students, in addition to seeing my own accept his diploma, of course. The thousands of 20-somethings on this campus aren’t alone in creating art and music that probes who we are as a society and what our relationships mean, or in taking action to change their communities. This is the generation that walked out of elementary school to protest gun violence and launched the careers of David Hogg and Greta Thunberg. This is what young people have always done, push human society to be the best version of itself. It’s often when times are the darkest and most uncertain that we turn to them for comfort and hope. Whether the writings of Anne Frank in the Holocaust or the voice of Joan Baez in the Vietnam War era, these voices carry unexpected and needed messages. The answer is in our relationships, in our commitment to and caring for each other.

As author Rebecca Solnit argues, the hero is often the collective, not a lone charismatic figure. We ignore at our peril “that individual actors and collective forces can suddenly emerge or implode, that history often takes sharp turns, that something that has held for decades or centuries can suddenly snap,” she writes.

Ultimately, none of us know what the future holds. We are building it in the present, every day. With these idealistic, creative, community-minded young people joining the ranks of changemakers, I feel optimistic for the first time in a while.

Layoffs often follow increases in economic uncertainty. Executives and consultants pitch “reducing headcount” as necessary, and sometimes even responsible, steps to “protecting the business.” Cutting payroll costs appears, at least in theory, to improve efficiency and restore profitability.

While the term “reducing headcount” does seem to strip away the human reality of layoffs, what if the basic financial evidence behind the effectiveness of layoffs is flawed? What if it is an antiquated assumption that offers short-lived gains that ultimately cost more than they save?

A growing body of peer-reviewed research suggests that layoffs may not deliver the benefits leaders assume—and may, in fact, undermine both organizational health and long-term performance.

Do layoffs achieve their financial aims?

At first glance, the typical reasons for layoffs over the last 30 years seem to make sense.

Companies may need to adjust their operations and cut costs as technology and competition shifts. In the current landscape of layoffs, layoffs are usually justified by the rise of artificial intelligence. But many experts warn of “AI Washing,” the convenient blaming of AI for layoffs that may be driven by other factors—including simple imitative behavior.

“Tech industry layoffs are basically an instance of social contagion, in which companies imitate what others are doing,” writes Jeffrey Pfeffer, author of the 1998 book The Human Equation and a professor of organizational behavior at the Stanford Graduate School of Business. “If you look for reasons for why companies do layoffs, the reason is that everybody else is doing it. Layoffs are the result of imitative behavior.”

In other words, the introduction of AI may be triggering a fad of layoffs that isn’t necessarily linked to financial performance. In fact, across decades of management research, one finding shows up again and again: layoffs rarely deliver sustained financial gains.

Some studies report short-term gains. For example, one 1998 study by Fayez Elayan and colleagues analyzed 349 layoff announcements and found that layoffs were followed by increases in profit margins and labor productivity. However, improved post-layoff profitability may partly reflect recovery from a low point, regression toward the mean, or accounting effects, rather than layoffs themselves creating long-term organizational strength. 

In a series of longitudinal studies, Wayne Cascio and colleagues compared large corporations that engaged in significant workforce reductions with those that did not. Their findings show that firms with large layoffs often underperformed their peers in profitability and stock price over subsequent years.

Similarly, a broader synthesis of downsizing research by Susan L. McKinley and colleagues concluded that performance effects are inconsistent at best, with many firms experiencing declines in long-term outcomes.

In a 2012 review of 20 studies on corporate layoffs, Deepak Datta of the University of Texas at Arlington found that layoffs tended to have either neutral or negative effects on stock prices immediately after they were announced. He also found that most companies experienced declines in profitability following layoffs—and related research suggested those financial setbacks often persisted for as long as three years.

“Layoffs often do not cut costs, as there are many instances of laid-off employees being hired back as contractors, with companies paying the contracting firm,” says Pfeffer in a 2022 interview. “Layoffs often do not increase stock prices, in part because layoffs can signal that a company is having difficulty. . . . Layoffs do not solve what is often the underlying problem, which is often an ineffective strategy, a loss of market share, or too little revenue.” 

How do humans experience layoffs?

Beyond measurable financial impact, layoffs are often very detrimental to organizational performance. According to results from a 2002 study by Magnus Sverke, Johnny Hellgren, and Katharina Näswall, employees who remained after layoffs experienced steep declines in morale and effectiveness, including a 41% drop in job satisfaction, a 36% decline in organizational commitment, and a 20% decrease in job performance.

Layoffs can also weaken the innovation, inventions, and relationships companies depend on to thrive. In one study of a Fortune 500 technology company, Teresa Amabile found that after reducing its workforce by 15%, new inventions fell by nearly a quarter.

And the damage can extend to customers, as well. Research by Paul Williams, M. Sajid Khan, and Earl Naumann found that customers are more likely to turn away from products or services after layoffs—suggesting that workforce reductions can erode not only internal trust, but brand loyalty, too.

While cutthroat employers might claim, “It’s not personal, it’s just business,” Pfeffer is unequivocal on the impact of layoffs, “Layoffs kill people, literally. They kill people in a number of ways. Layoffs increase the odds of suicide by two and a half times. . . . Layoffs increase mortality by 15-20% over the following 20 years.”

In addition, the effects of layoffs can persist for years. A 2009 Columbia University study found that workers who lost their jobs during the 1982 recession were still earning 20% less than peers who remained employed two decades later.

The harmful consequences extend far beyond income. Research by Kate Strully at the State University of New York found that laid-off employees were 83% more likely to develop a new health condition in the year following job loss and significantly more likely to engage in violent behavior.

Together, these studies suggest that layoffs aren’t just short-term episodes—they have lasting effects for people’s health, financial futures, personal well-being, and relationships.

What are the alternatives?

As Pfeffer cautions, “People don’t pay attention to the evidence against layoffs.” Perhaps it’s time that they do—and so consider the alternatives.

In a now-legendary story about the early days of Southwest Airlines in the 1970s, the leadership had a serious decision to make during a time of extreme financial pressure for the company.  With only three planes in its fleet during the crisis, the choice for cost savings ultimately came down to two options: layoff employees, or sell an airplane. 

To align with their values of trust, loyalty, and operational continuity, Southwest surprised the industry by deciding to sell an airplane, rather than lay off any of its workforce. What followed was an intense but uplifting period where people pulled together and figured out how to shrink the turnaround time between flights in order to fly more flights each day with only two airplanes. This turned into a sizable competitive advantage for Southwest for years to come, helping it become one of the most profitable airlines in the U.S. 

Southwest continued its long “no layoffs” streak for over 50 years, even after most airlines chose to institute layoffs after major shocks like the 9/11 tragedy and the COVID pandemic. (Note: In 2025, Southwest did finally succumb to pressure from investors and lay off employees in combination with other service changes that made their brand less unique, like assigned seats and fees for checked luggage.)

During the 2008 financial crisis, industrial manufacturer Barry-Wehmiller faced severe declines in their revenue. Rather than laying people off, CEO Bob Chapman chose a combination of temporary furloughs, shared unpaid leave, and executive sacrifices (like temporarily cutting his own salary from $875,000 to $10,500). Employees came together and shared the downturn-related losses so that no one person had to lose their job. This path of coming together and sharing sacrifices for the good of the company may, in fact, have enhanced employees’ sense of purpose and organizational commitment. Barry-Wehmiller recovered successfully, became internationally known for its human-centered leadership model, and is now a multi-billion dollar company.

As these examples illustrate, forward-thinking companies and organizations often have more options than they originally believed—and they can consider alternatives to layoffs when times get tough:

• redeployment (moving people into more needed positions in the company);
• reskilling (teaching new skills that the company needs);
• temporary furloughs (having everyone take a bit of time off to save on payroll);
• reduced hours/pay sharing;
• hiring freezes; and
• natural attrition.

One example of reskilling had very positive effects. In 2008, AT&T had one of the world’s largest workforces—and the company realized it was facing a massive technological transition that would require new skills. Internal research showed that only about half of its 250,000 employees had the science, technology, engineering, and math capabilities the company would need going forward. At the same time, roughly 100,000 employees were working in hardware-related roles that leaders believed would likely disappear within the next decade as the company shifted toward software and digital services. 

Instead of laying off people and paying high labor prices for tech-focused workers, AT&T created a massive reskilling campaign, with thousands earning “learning badges” for their newfound skills, thereby helping the company make a digital transformation. Perhaps a similar program could work in the age of AI? 

Overall, these layoff-avoidant approaches preserve the human ingenuity and energy that powers organizational success, while maintaining trust between employees and their employer—and allowing companies to bounce back faster from future challenges.

This is what’s known as “anticipatory grief”—a reaction to loss that hasn’t yet occurred. While it’s fairly common to experience it for a loved one facing a terminal illness, you can also experience it in other potential loss situations, like retiring from a fulfilling career, a child going away to college, or divorce. It often involves a liminal state of being, like what I experienced, that can wreak havoc with your well-being and interfere with your ability to be present.

While similar to after-loss grief, anticipatory grief has its own issues and trajectories that can make it hard to manage, says Alan Wolfelt, director of the Center for Loss and Life Transition and an expert on the topic. While you may lean toward ignoring or pushing away these complex emotions, denying your grief and suffering silently will probably not help you or your loved ones cope better.

“Too often, people are trying to be happy at times when they should be sad, and that inhibits their ability to fully integrate a life transition into their world,” says Wolfelt. “We can better cope with realities we face by acknowledging them.”

Anticipatory grief, like after-loss grief, can be painful. But by understanding what it’s like and giving yourself permission to explore its many facets, you might be able to mitigate some of the pain and move through it with more intention.

Similar and different from regular grief

Like grief after a loss, anticipated grief can involve strong and varied emotions. You may feel happy, sad, angry, confused, worried, relieved, guilty, and more, and the feelings may arise at seemingly random moments, sometimes overwhelming you. Your feelings can be hard to explain even to yourself, let alone others.

For example, imagine your teenage son is applying to colleges. Suddenly, you’re hit with the reality that he’ll be leaving home soon and your life will change dramatically. You may feel sad anticipating losing your son’s everyday presence, look forward to a new, freer chapter in your life, or both. You may feel pride and joy for his bright future, but fear losing your close relationship and your role as his parent.

These myriad emotions can be disorienting—but it’s important to honor them, however they show up, says Wolfelt.

“The more open acknowledgement you can have of what your genuine, authentic emotions are, the better,” he says.

While grieving a death may seem natural and expected, anticipatory grief may come with some resistance, like telling yourself (or other people telling you) there’s no reason to feel what you’re feeling. However, according to Wolfelt, denying your pain only adds to it, negatively affecting your everyday well-being. A better way to handle anticipatory grief is to own it and process it through mourning.

“Grief is the internal response, the thoughts and feelings inside,” he says. “In contrast, mourning is the shared social response or grief gone public; it’s taking your grief and putting it into action. That creates change or movement.”

The importance of mourning

There are known, socially acceptable ways to mourn someone who’s died, like funerals, sitting Shiva, Dia de los Muertos, and other rituals. While there may be fewer structured ways to manage anticipatory grief, we can help ourselves through the experience by understanding the importance of mourning in processing grief.

“Mourning helps you integrate loss and be transformed by your grief,” says Wolfelt. “You get stuck if you grieve but don’t mourn.”

The very nature of anticipatory grief (or any grief) is that it can feel different from one moment to the next, and from one person to another. That means our mourning needs may change over time. No one needs to follow a specific pattern, says Wolfelt, but we all need to pay attention and take our grief seriously.

This may be easier or harder, depending on several factors. How close you were to a person, your cultural or spiritual beliefs, and differences in your personality and gender can all influence how you mourn and how effective you are at managing grief versus staying stuck in it.

“If you have low social support, a history of anxiety, a history of a [strongly] dependent relationship with the person (for example, you haven’t expanded your social support system beyond the person who’s dying); those are risk factors that research clearly shows can make it more challenging for you,” he says.

A healthier way to mourn

While no one needs to mourn in the same way, Wolfelt suggests in his guidebook on the topic that people try to meet six specific needs to get through the experience:

1. Acknowledge that you are grieving and the reality of your loss. You may feel it’s too hard to acknowledge the impending loss, but denial doesn’t help. Instead, acknowledging all emotions is a better path toward well-being, even in the midst of grief. Facing your reality more squarely can help you figure out what you need.

“Thinking of yourself in this way will help you be both self-compassionate and honest about how challenging your current circumstances are,” he writes.

2. Embrace all of your emotions, pleasant and unpleasant. Anticipatory grief is marked by changing, intense emotions. Naming them can help to tame them, making them less overwhelming. You can also try reframing the meaning of your feelings to make them less problematic, such as recognizing grief as a facet of loving someone deeply.

If you’re feeling emotionally overwhelmed by grief, Wolfelt recommends dosing it—meaning, letting yourself fully experience your emotions, but limiting how long you do that. When not focusing on your grief, it’s fine to distract yourself, evade thoughts, or do whatever you want to keep your grief from being so dominant, he adds.

“There’s a balance to be had between doing the work of anticipating loss and in balancing that with the ability to stay present in the here and now,” he says.

This may be especially important when taking care of someone you will be losing, as caregiving often requires a more outward than inward focus. Having a way to care for your emotional needs outside of that role can be helpful.

3. Explore memories of the love or attachment you’re losing. This may seem like a step to avoid, but Wolfelt says it’s important for managing anticipatory grief. Reviewing past memories allows you to create a narrative around what is happening, something humans need to help make sense of their lives and feel congruency. Research suggests that allowing ourselves to feel nostalgia for the past has many benefits, including putting us in touch with our authentic selves and what matters in life.

“The more time and attention you devote to exploring memories and sharing and discussing them with others, the more your sense of peace will grow,” writes Wolfelt.

4. Develop a new self-identity. Often our relationships are part of our identity—we are a partner, a mother, a daughter, or a colleague. Our impending loss may make us question who we are in the world. It’s important to recognize that and address it.

For example, if you’re losing your wife of many years, through divorce or death, your friendships may be affected and your social circle may shrink; once-shared activities may no longer appeal or be possible. While you may grieve this transition and the changes it brings, it also opens up possibilities to embrace new roles in life.

“Change is often both a loss and an opportunity, even if it’s an opportunity you would never willingly have chosen,” writes Wolfelt.

5. Search for meaning in the experience. When facing loss, many of us begin to question the meaning of our lives. “It’s important to focus on meaning and purpose, both in the attachment that is ending and in your continued living,” writes Wolfelt. This might take you into spiritual territory, stimulating questions about why you exist, what it all means, and how you can go on.

Seeking meaning from your experience can help one cope in the present with difficult future losses as well as later on, after the loss has occurred. To help explore that, Wolfelt suggests reading inspiring texts, meditating or praying, talking with spiritual advisors, journaling, or spending more time in nature. Whatever puts you closer to your own sense of meaning will help you find peace, and more reasons to get up in the morning if you are feeling dragged down.

6. Reach out to others for support. As mourning is an outward experience of inner pain, finding other people who can listen as you grapple with your emotions, memories, and questions about life’s meaning can be soothing and helpful.

“You might feel undeserving of attention because the ultimate loss hasn’t really happened yet. But I’m here to tell you that your current grief is completely real, valid, and necessary. And there are others who will understand,” he writes.

Look for someone who can listen empathically without trying to guide you (or bully you) into feeling better, he says. No one experiencing anticipatory grief should ever be pushed into something that doesn’t feel right or given pat phrases that discount their pain.

“Cliches can be very painful to somebody who’s experiencing grief—trite comments like, ‘You’re holding up so well, time heals all wounds, think of what you still have to be thankful for,’” he says. “While well intended, they’re often misinformed and are a projection from the outside in.”

Choosing whom exactly to share with can be tricky. But you can look to family and close friends, support groups experiencing the same types of anticipated loss, spiritual advisors, or professional counselors, writes Wolfelt.

“Find people that can walk into the metaphorical wilderness of grief and honor that you’re in a liminal space, without feeling the need to pull you to the left or right or to pull you out,” he says. “Those are the genuine, compassionate people that we need in our lives.”

If approaching someone with your grief feels too daunting, you can still help yourself by just being around people more generally. We all need social connection for our health and happiness, and having a fun night out with friends, small interactions with neighbors, or a coffee at the local café can make you feel less alone, even if you don’t explicitly talk to anyone about your grief.

Dealing well with grief is a life skill

We will all face loss at some point in our lives—but we’ll only anticipate grief when the loss involves someone we love. Love and grief go hand in hand, says Wolfelt, making it central to a life well-lived.

“The capacity to give and receive love means we will likely mourn someday,” he says. But living in a “mourning-avoidant, emotion-phobic” culture, he adds, we don’t always have the right tools handy for guiding ourselves or others through it.

To be better prepared, it’s wise for us all to cultivate the skills that will serve us well in times of grief and loss. Having greater emotional intelligence, mindful attention, meaning and purpose, social connection, and hope can all help, says Wolfelt. Fortunately, these can all be deliberately practiced long before a loss comes along, helping us lead healthier, happier lives overall.

“These are central needs. The more you can befriend those needs, the more you integrate loss into your life,” he says.

You’d think, given my professional focus and personal interests, that I would fall into that 12% of self-aware people. But in some areas of my life, I’m not. For example, I think of myself as a healthy eater. But when I wear a continuous glucose monitor (CGM), which gives me clear data on how my body responds to sleep, stress, and food, I behave differently than when I’m not wearing one.

It’s not that I don’t know that a blackberry cream scone is going to shoot my blood sugar out of range; I do. But if I’m not wearing a CGM, I don’t think about it. I keep that truth conveniently outside of my awareness. If I am wearing a CGM, however, I know I won’t be able to avoid the alarm signaling that my blood sugar is too high, and, therefore, I won’t be able to avoid the truth. I will be aware of what is going on within me, and that awareness will motivate me to skip the scone—rather than avoid the truth.

For all our self-focus, it can be genuinely hard to keep reality in our range of vision. But when we do, we’re much more likely to follow through with our habits for health and happiness.

What self-awareness is not

Self-awareness requires more than navel-gazing. Psychologists draw a sharp line between helpful inward-looking and two unhealthy modes of self-focus. One is rumination—when we replay our failures, rehearse anxieties, and return repeatedly to the same bruising thoughts. Another is closer to narcissism: a preoccupation with our self-image that is mistaken for self-insight. Both feel like self-knowledge, but neither improves our health, habits, or happiness. (To the contrary, both increase depression and anxiety.)

Self-awareness is the capacity to non-judgmentally observe ourselves: what we’re doing, feeling, and thinking. Rumination is a loop of distress; self-awareness asks What is happening for me right now? What am I doing? What am I feeling? Reflective, curious, non-judgmental self-examination predicts personal growth, while rumination and self-consciousness actively undermine it.

There are many reasons we don’t turn inward to mindfully observe ourselves. The demands on our attention from the outside world are loud. It can be painful to look closely at ourselves, our lives, and our habits. We become so practiced at managing the external world that our internal worlds quietly go unexamined. This is unfortunate because people high in self-awareness tend to be happier, have higher self-esteem, and are more resilient.

Self-awareness is a superpower

When we want to get into a new habit, most of us approach it as a willpower problem, willing ourselves to change through sheer force. A more effective path starts with self-awareness. Here’s why:

Self-awareness can help you catch triggers before they catch you. Two-thirds of our daily behaviors happen on autopilot—like mindless snacking, sitting too long, and reaching for our phones. Self-monitoring (a direct application of self-awareness) can bring those automatic behaviors into conscious view. You can’t interrupt a pattern you can’t see, and so a critical first step in changing unwanted behavior is recognizing what sets it off.

As you notice patterns in your thoughts and emotions, you’ll better understand when and why you do certain things. Understanding that you reach for unhealthy snacks when you’re bored versus when you’re anxious opens the door to different solutions. Similarly, understanding that you are more likely to exercise when you do it with a friend can help you follow through more often.

It motivates you. Heightened self-awareness leads people to be more conscious of the gap between where they are and where they want to be—and more motivated to close that gap. This type of noticing isn’t about self-criticism; it’s about being clear-eyed.

Also, research consistently shows that intrinsic motivation—doing something because it aligns with your own values and interests, not because someone else told you to—produces more lasting change. Self-awareness is how you access that intrinsic drive, because you have to understand yourself to know what you genuinely care about.

It rewires your brain’s reward system. When self-awareness allows us to align our behaviors with our deeper values, those behaviors actually feel better to the brain. When a new behavior is encoded as more rewarding, we start doing it more effortlessly.

How to be more self-aware

Measure the behaviors and outcomes you care about. Like me with my CGM, in studies of people trying to change their eating habits, participants who tracked their food reported genuine surprise about their eating patterns, which motivated them to change. Simply tracking what you’re doing is one of the most consistently effective tools for behavior change we have. Wearables like Oura Rings allow us to see and improve dozens of behaviors within our control, and when we pair what we learn from a wearable with self-reflection about how we feel after doing something good for us, we give the brain the information it needs to update its reward system—making healthy choices feel better and easier to repeat.

Practice self-compassion when you fall short. One of the most surprising bridges to genuine self-awareness is self-compassion. BetterUp research shows that it is the single best predictor of a person’s ability to manage stress, with people high in self-compassion showing 26% lower stress, 33% more resilience, and 24% lower burnout. Why? Self-compassion lowers the psychological threat of looking honestly at yourself.

When we approach our struggles, failures, and blind spots with kindness rather than judgment, we no longer need to protect ourselves from our own criticism or embarrassment; a willingness to look without flinching makes hard truths bearable enough to learn from.

Ask yourself “what” questions, not “why” questions. When we want to understand ourselves better, the instinct is to ask why: Why did I do that? Why do I feel this way? But “why” is surprisingly ineffective as a self-awareness question. “Why” questions tend to produce stories and justifications rather than genuine insight, and often send us straight into rumination. “What” questions work differently. Instead of Why am I so stressed?, try What situations are making me feel stressed, and what do they have in common? Instead of Why can’t I stick to this habit?, try What is getting in the way, and what would make it easier? “What” keeps us curious, specific, and forward-facing—which is the posture self-awareness requires.

Ask a coach or trusted friend what they see. The path to self-knowledge is often interpersonal: Feedback from people who know us well and have our best interests at heart can reveal aspects of ourselves that introspection alone cannot. We all have blind spots, and no amount of looking inward will show us what we can’t see. Seeking honest observations from others is a reliable way to close the gap between how we see ourselves and how we actually are. It can be as simple as asking a friend or a spouse after a hard week: What do you notice about me right now that I might not be seeing?

Try meditation. Meditation has many cognitive benefits and can lead to brain changes that increase self-awareness. Even a few minutes of sitting quietly, noticing what you’re thinking and feeling without trying to change or suppress it, trains the helpful kind of inward attention needed to truly “know thyself.”

Self-awareness is a skill that improves with practice. But we don’t need to overhaul our lives or spend hours in meditation to develop it. We just need to be curious and nonjudgmental about what we’re doing, feeling, and thinking in any given moment.

In a world that rewards busyness and performance, turning inward can feel indulgent or even risky. But self-awareness isn’t a detour from your best life; it’s the fastest route to it.

I also knew that I wasn’t alone. In fact, one in four adults in their 40s and 50s are doing “sandwich generation caregiving.” By 2030, all Boomers will be over 65, and even more of us will be taking care of kids and aging parents simultaneously.

But here’s the thing—while it’s true that the time I’ve spent touring memory care facilities for my dad with dementia, driving my mom to orthopedic appointments for her knee replacement, and picking up prescriptions for them at the pharmacy (among so much else) has taken time and attention away from my kids, I honestly believe that caring for elders in this season of life has made me a better parent.

For starters, it’s made me so much less delusional and perfectionist about what I can get done in a day, which makes me a less anxious, hovering parent. Plus, it’s given my kids daily access to their grandparents, which is a win-win for everyone (if only my mom would stop letting the kids watch inappropriate SNL sketches!). 

And there are so many overlapping insights and strategies on care for both generations. Here are just a handful I’ve discovered.

1. Less words, more presence

When I first became a parent, I remember hearing that babies and toddlers should optimally hear about 20,000 words a day. I processed that factoid as gospel.

It wasn’t until I started taking care of my dad, who was suffering from advancing dementia and losing so many words every day, that I started to think in a more nuanced way about how my parenting had progressed. My eight- and 12-year-old daughters were far beyond the golden window of early childhood brain development, and while I loved talking with them both about everything under the sun, I think I was clinging to some idealistic notion of what our interactions were supposed to sound like. My 12 year old, in particular, is a more internal person; she has eruptions of sharing, almost like unpredictable geysers, but much of the time she is quieter.

As I learned to sit with my dad, watching the sunset, long minutes of silence and awe stretching easily between us, I realized that I could do the same with my kids, especially my more internal daughter. These days, we sit and make art side by side in silence or bake something in the kitchen while listening to our song, “All Too Well” (10-minute version), without much direct communication, and I know that’s not a sign that our relationship isn’t healthy or I’m not filling her brain with enough vocabulary.

I know its presence. It’s gentle. And it’s attuned. Taking care of my dad, learning how to spend more and more wordless time with him, taught me that.

2. Grace in public is holy

As my dad’s dementia advanced, it became harder and harder to know where I could take him in public. As I would check out the coffee counter, he might grab a day-old muffin and just start unwrapping it without paying for it. He had lost the circuitry that knew how to function in a capitalistic economy where everything was not up for grabs. The cashier might be horrified and I might be forced to explain what was going on. Some were kind, others acted inconvenienced.

And yes, sometimes our neurodiverse family, friends, and neighbors slow things down, surprise us, or get weird. But if I have learned anything from the way people responded to my dad in these moments, it is that there is a special place in heaven for people who have enough grace to know they can’t possibly know what’s going on with the quirky strangers they meet—whether they appear to be a three year old having a tantrum on the bus or an 83 year old stealing a muffin at the cafe.

Caring for my dad has made me want to teach and model for my kids what it looks like to be a compassionate and humble stranger, more concerned with our collective humanity than efficiency and “normal” expectations. When people “yes and…” neurodivergent people in public of any age, they are often rewarded with a delightful surprise, a laugh, a discovery, a great story. Resistance isn’t just futile and unkind, it’s boring.

3. Needing professionals isn’t a failure

When we decided to take my dad to memory care, our hearts broke a little. We really thought we could create a loving, imperfect village that would be able to handle his progressing dementia—if only we did enough pattern-keeping, communicating, and creative problem solving.

But ultimately it turned out to be too much for even our earnest and enterprising crew. My dad seemed to be suffering despite all of our best efforts. So, we found a community with a beautiful garden full of butterflies, an ethos of elder dignity, and a distinctly Buddhist feel—all of which seemed like a perfect fit for who he was. Once he was there, I learned so much from watching professional caregivers take care of him and honoring their labor with a fair wage and their wisdom with our eternal gratitude.

Family caregivers matter! And we often can’t do it alone. That’s not failure; it speaks to the magnitude of some of the diseases we face (like dementia, which neurologist Bruce Miller calls the “blackbelt of caregiving”) and the limitations of loved ones. Each professional caregiver that now works with my dad meets him as he is now, not lugging all the grief alongside like I do.

The same is true for our children when they go to daycare, school, and even sports. We need teachers, daycare providers, coaches, and others who come with their own expertise, but also who see our kids with new eyes, with more fresh energy, and with less projection.

4. Grief is inevitable

My kids were becoming themselves just as my dad was unbecoming himself—such a wild juxtaposition.

But the truth is, there has been grief in both. Of course I grieve the loss of who my dad was, the long conversations we’d have about faith and ethics, the hours we spent in dark movie theaters together watching films or hiking through the New Mexican desert. But I also grieve the tiny baby my daughter once was, who now has my shoe size and never needs me to hang her upside down to blow dry her neck so she doesn’t make breast milk cheese in her abundant folds. I will never wear my daughters in a baby carrier again, or watch them taste their first food, or take a nap where their entire body fits on my torso.

Even though my children’s trajectory is more “hopeful” than my dad’s, more additive, it is still a trajectory characterized by excitement and grief. And, weirdly, my dad’s trajectory isn’t without excitement if I look at it with enough equanimity. My dad is going to die soon—be released from this body that is no longer functioning the way he needs it to. He will be free, as free as one can get, really. I don’t know much, but I know that, and I’m excited for him.

And I will miss him forever and ever, just as I will miss my babies forever and ever. The evolution of our relationship is always both things—excitement and grief.

5. Shared awe is the whole thing

Some of my favorite recent memories with my dad have been moments when he was mystified by the natural world. We’d be walking around our neighborhood and he would point at a random tree and say, “I have no idea how this got here!” I would laugh, but then think, “Well, I don’t either. I mean I know it was a seed, but I don’t know who planted it. Was it intentional? How long ago was that? What kind of tree is it? How big is it now?”

When you see the world through dementia-colored eyes, there’s a season—at least there was for my dad—when its awe is more available. One time my dad looked out at a wildly bright sunset, streaked with orange and pink and black, and said, “Who did this?” Again, I chuckled, but then realized, that was the right question to be asking. Indeed, Dad, who? It was an extension of the conversations about sacred mysteries that he and I had been having my whole life, but in a less academic or cynical form.

These moments all reminded me of similar exchanges I’ve had with my daughters over the years. There is nothing more delightful than a slow walk with a toddler, who is noticing every little thing along the way and trying to fit it into her rapidly expanding schemas. Even more recently, my kids sometimes take my breath away with a random comment, like a recent car ride home from Target when my nine year old told me matter of factly about her religion, in which there are three gods—one male, one female, and one non-binary. Each has a role each day—one controls her body, one controls her language, and one makes sure the other two are making good choices. There is no boss. They switch roles every day, but one of them always makes sure the other two are making good decisions. Talk about check and balances!

The truth is that all of these lessons are really about reverence for how much is inside of those we care about, and how much it just keeps changing. The more we can evolve with them, not try to pin them down with words and egos and expectations, the more we can all enjoy the heartbreaking, heartbursting co-created adventure of it all.

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At the time, I was a mindfulness educator and was adapting the Mindful Self-Compassion course, developed by Kristin Neff and Christopher Germer, into a class for parents and children. Lessons in the Mindfulness and Self-Compassion for Children and Caregivers course include kid-friendly messages and practices centering on anger. The program, along with the two-volume Mindfulness and Self-Compassion Workbooks for Kids that I wrote, helps children and caregivers notice anger, understand its messages, and use it as a bridge to connection rather than division.

I’ve since begun teaching Neff’s Fierce Self-Compassion program, which helps people transform emotions like anger into courage, strength, and protection. Fierce self-compassion invites us not only to comfort ourselves when we suffer, but also to stand up for ourselves and others in the face of harm and injustice. The energy that empowers adults to act with integrity can also help children to channel anger into clarity and caring force.

Through teaching mindfulness and self-compassion programs to caregivers and youth over the years, I’ve helped thousands of kids learn how to understand and work with anger. Here are five steps that can help kids (and us) channel the power of anger wisely.

1. Help kids understand that anger is human

Many children, especially girls, are socialized to believe that it’s not OK to express anger with peers and adults outside of the home. Chronic suppression of anger can lead to negative health outcomes for all genders, though for girls and women, suppression can sometimes turn inward as self-blame or sadness.

To help children open to the emotion of anger, it can be helpful to remind them that anger is neither good nor bad, but rather evidence of being human. While there are more and less helpful ways of expressing anger (we’ll touch on that more in later sections), the emotion itself is wired into humans. Remembering that others sometimes feel like us is part of practicing self-compassion, and this acceptance can help with emotional regulation.

Graduates of my parent-child mindfulness and self-compassion course have shared how remembering that challenging situations and emotions are human helped them feel calmer in the presence of anger. “I noticed I didn’t get so mad like I used to get,” said one child. “You’re not alone. I notice myself sometimes saying that in my brain.” Another child blew up less frequently at a sibling by remembering that “other people also have sisters who make them mad.”

Helping kids understand that everyone gets angry is critical in developing a healthy relationship with anger.

2. Notice how anger feels in the body

To respond to anger skillfully, kids first need to notice it arising. Paying attention to how anger feels in the body helps children recognize early signs of frustration.

We can start children on this path by modeling mindfulness of anger—sometimes easier said than done! We can share our own experiences with anger, not in the heat of the moment, but at other times that invite reflection. For example, a parent might say, “I felt angry earlier today when someone cut me off in traffic. My shoulders got tight and my heart was racing, so I took a few breaths before responding. Everyone feels angry sometimes.”

Our modeling can help kids learn to accept their anger and also be mindful of their sensations. In my workbook for kids, I invite children to share about how anger feels in their body. “[When I’m angry] my face gets tight and hot,” said River, age nine. “And my breath feels suffocating.”

Aarya, age 10, shared this story: “My sister messed with my game, and my hands tightened into fists.”

It can be challenging for kids to hold anger sensations in awareness during the heat of the moment. It usually works best to practice mindfulness of anger sensations during neutral times, intentionally calling up a frustration and helping kids narrate how the body responds.

We can also help kids notice neutral sensations, like feeling the soles of their feet. Drawing awareness into the feet can help us stay grounded in the presence of strong emotions. With repeated practice, mindfulness of these sensations can help create a pause between an angry impulse and a reaction.

3. Regulate the intensity of anger

Anger is a powerful emotion, and when it surges through the body, it can overwhelm kids whose prefrontal cortex is still developing. As Khalil, age eight, puts it: “When I get angry, my whole body gets tight and I feel red. Like a bomb that could explode.”

In volume 2 of my workbook, children decode this message: “Anger is like fire. Use it with care.” Kids intuitively understand this metaphor. Out-of-control anger can burn down houses and villages. But when tended wisely, the flame of anger can warm, protect, and even light the way for justice.

Anger can be a force for good or cause damage depending on our ability to regulate and channel it. When anger feels too intense to navigate skillfully, it can sometimes be helpful to move, distract ourselves, or breathe deeply.

For Josie, a child in my parent-child class, movement was helpful. “My favorite thing I learned was 7 Shakes.” she said. “It taught me how to shake away my anger.”

For other kids, stillness serves them better. Marcos offered this reflection:

If you let [anger] get too out of control, it gets bigger and then you can’t control it. . . . My breath gets quick but weak. My hands get really warm, and my body gets really tight. . . . I don’t think it would be helpful to shake it off because it will be too out of control.

Some studies suggest that males are more prone to aggression with anger than females, and physically releasing anger may be more helpful for some than others, regardless of gender. Rather than teaching kids a single “right” way to calm down, we can invite them to notice what helps them stay steady. Sometimes that’s movement—running, shaking, or scribbling hard with crayons. Other times it’s stillness, like feeling their feet on the ground or taking a slow breath. Another helpful strategy is a squeeze and release exercise, guided playfully in the book The Angry Octopus.

In the context of empowerment, the goal isn’t to get rid of anger but to let its intensity move through the body without causing harm. When kids learn how to regulate anger’s intensity, they begin to experience anger not as something to fear or fight, but rather as a power they can learn to use with wisdom.

4. Look under anger for softer feelings and needs

Expressing anger can be complicated for children of all genders, though the impacts can sometimes be different. When children aren’t taught how to work with anger skillfully, the emotion can explode outward, creating interpersonal conflict, or turn inward as self-criticism. Both anger expression and anger suppression have been linked to depression, especially in females.

We want our children to learn constructive ways to express their anger interpersonally. Non-Violent Communication (NVC) is an effective approach for teaching kids to express anger in healthy ways. One great resource, Giraffe Juice, takes children on a playful adventure while they learn the steps of NVC, which include communicating feelings and identifying unmet needs.

When I teach caregivers and kids mindful self-compassion, I explain that anger is a hard emotion that often hides softer feelings and needs. Learning to identify the feelings and needs under anger helps kids view anger as a helpful messenger. In volume 2 of my workbook, a wise chick helps children explore the layers under anger. In the comic below, a child who feels furious is invited to look beneath the surface and notice softer feelings and needs.

On the surface, the child was angry because his friend won’t work with him, but underneath he felt sad and wished for belonging. When children learn to look beneath anger, they discover that it’s often pointing to what they value most: friendship, fairness, belonging, or care. Helping kids identify and express these underlying needs is one of the most powerful ways to transform conflict into connection.

5. Teach repair and empowered action

Even with preparation and the best of intentions, anger can sometimes lead us to do and say hurtful things. This is why, in addition to teaching our children to express anger constructively, we can also help them learn to repair. Modeling is one way we can help kids learn to own anger mishaps.

While I was writing this article, my older daughter came into the office with a huge request that completely derailed my focus. I blew up and yelled, practicing destructive rather than constructive anger. I saw that my behavior impacted my daughter negatively, and I went for a walk to cool down.

As I walked, I thought about both my daughter’s and my own needs. I saw my daughter’s need for help with a big task, and I saw my own need for focusing on a project that I wanted to complete. Both mattered. While my anger expression was unskillful and required an apology, the need for boundaries was real. This is how anger’s energy can be helpful: It can motivate us to protect or provide for ourselves and set boundaries when needed.

When I came back from my walk, I sincerely apologized for my anger outburst. I also let my daughter know that I needed more time to work on this task before I helped her. I assured her that I genuinely cared, and we both agreed that in the future, she would ask if the timing was right before unpacking a big project.

When we as caregivers cause damage with our anger, we can model owning our mistake, reestablish connection, and also communicate about feelings and needs. Children need caregivers who model both tender care as well as confidence and strength.

When children mess up and their anger leads to hurtful words or actions, we can guide them towards making things right. We can also help them be curious about what their anger was trying to tell them. Taking responsibility doesn’t mean the anger was wrong; it means they’re learning to use it wisely.

As caregivers of children, we can help children understand that anger’s energy empowers us to…

• Notice what is not OK;
• Say no to bullying;
• Be motivated to stop harmful behavior;
• Set boundaries; and
• Learn about what we value.

When anger shows us what matters, it becomes a compass for positive action. Kids can learn to speak up, set boundaries, or advocate for themselves and others. We can let children know that we believe in their strength and will support them in using their anger wisely. This builds a foundation for them to rise and stand up for themselves and others.

My younger daughter Anjali, now 13 years old, is already using her anger to stand up to injustice. She does this through collective social action, as well as advocating for others who are being mistreated. Last year, when a friend of hers was being bullied, she stood up—unafraid of being displeasing—and the bullying stopped. This is what I had wished for Anjali, and it is what I wish for all children: the ability to turn fierce anger into strength, clarity, and a force for good.

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These interactions matter. They are where trust is built (or quietly eroded). They are also where school leaders’ nervous systems are most tested. Over time, the cumulative emotional weight of these moments can leave even experienced leaders feeling depleted, reactive, or disconnected. Many school leaders are left asking questions that rarely get named out loud: How do I stay grounded and compassionate in the moment, recover afterward, and continue leading well without burning out?

Research on mindfulness and self-compassion offers a surprisingly practical answer. Far from being a “soft” add-on, self-compassion is a skill that helps leaders regulate stress, stay present in hard moments, and model emotional steadiness for their communities. It allows leaders to stay present without hardening, to recover without withdrawing, and to model resilience without perfection. When leaders practice self-compassion in real time, they shape school cultures where care is embedded rather than added on. Where challenge is met with steadiness. Where humanity is not a liability, but a strength.

Here are three evidence-informed practices that school leaders can use to stay grounded during tough conversations, recover without carrying stress forward, and quietly cultivate a culture of care.

1. Staying grounded in the moment

When a conversation becomes tense, the body reacts instantly. The heart rate rises. The jaw tightens. Thoughts narrow. This is not a failure of leadership; it’s biology. The nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do.

The challenge is not eliminating this reaction, but responding to it with awareness rather than being swept away by it. Here’s a simple grounding practice that might help you to do that:

• Feel your feet on the floor. Bringing attention to physical contact helps orient the nervous system to the present moment.
• Take one slow breath, extending the exhale. A longer exhale activates the body’s calming response.
• Silently name the experience. Try phrases like, “This is a hard moment,” or “This is stress.” Research by Kristin Neff and Christopher Germer shows that naming difficulty supports emotional regulation and reduces reactivity.
• Reconnect with your values. Before responding, ask yourself: What matters most here: being right, or being steady and kind?

This pause may take only a few seconds, but it can shift the tone of an entire interaction. Over time, these micro-moments of awareness become a leadership strength, allowing you to respond from intention rather than impulse.

2. Recovering without carrying it forward

Most leaders move directly from one emotionally charged interaction to the next, leaving no space for recovery. Yet recovery is where resilience is built.

Without it, stress accumulates. Conversations replay in the mind. Tension lingers in the body. Over weeks and months, this unprocessed strain contributes to exhaustion and burnout. Here’s a brief recovery practice:

• Notice what remains. Tight shoulders, shallow breath, looping thoughts.
• Acknowledge the difficulty with kindness. “That was hard.” “Anyone in my role would feel this.”
• Offer a gesture of care. Placing a hand on the heart or taking a few slow steps outside can help activate the body’s soothing system.
• Consciously release the moment. Imagine setting the conversation aside before moving on to the next task.

Research on emotional schemas suggests that how we interpret stress, whether as evidence of failure or as part of being human, shapes our resilience. These small rituals send a different message: Struggle is part of leadership, not a sign I’m doing it wrong.

3. Modeling compassionate leadership

Self-compassion doesn’t stay contained within the leader. It spreads.

Schools often mirror the emotional tone of their leadership. When leaders are reactive or overwhelmed, staff feel it. When leaders are grounded and self-aware, others can exhale.

Modeling compassionate leadership doesn’t require new initiatives or extra time. It shows up in small, visible choices:

• Opening staff meetings with a brief moment of grounding.
• Naming tension gently: “This feels like a charged conversation, let’s slow it down.”
• Sharing, without oversharing, that you use simple practices to reset after hard moments.

Research on compassionate leadership consistently links these behaviors to higher trust, lower burnout, and greater psychological safety. When leaders embody calm and care, they give others permission to do the same.

4. Learning from the moment

Self-compassion is not only soothing and supportive, but it’s also clarifying. After you’ve grounded and recovered, reflection becomes possible. That’s when you can ask questions like: What activated me in that conversation? or How did I respond, and how would I like to respond next time?

This kind of reflection transforms stress into insight. It builds emotional literacy and deepens self-trust: I can handle hard things and keep learning.

Leaders can extend this reflective stance to their teams by inviting gentle questions such as, “What did you learn about yourself this week?” These moments strengthen connection and normalize shared humanity.

So, the next time a difficult conversation tightens your chest or speeds your breath, try pausing. Feel your feet. Take one slow exhale. Remind yourself: This is hard, and I can meet it with care.

That quiet choice, to slow down and respond kindly, has the power to change not just how you lead, but how your entire community feels in your presence.