Empathy in the Face of Disaster: A Dispatch with Journalist Hollie McKay
YouTube Video
In a world awash with breaking headlines and fleeting attention spans, it’s increasingly rare to hear raw, unfiltered reflections from those who dedicate their lives to telling the world’s most difficult stories. But in a recent candid conversation between veteran journalist Hollie McKay and host Dennis Santiago, the discussion moved far beyond news into the territory of human emotion, collective responsibility, and the fraying edges of empathy.
Set against the backdrop of a devastating natural disaster in Texas and the lingering aftermath of January’s wildfires in Los Angeles, the interview served as a poignant meditation on how we relate to tragedy—and whether modern journalism can still move people to care.
“I Am a Human First”
At the core of McKay’s philosophy is an unwavering belief that journalism must stem from humanity. “I am a human first and a journalist second,” she says. It’s a line that sounds simple until she unpacks what it truly means.
While speaking about the recent disaster in Texas, where dozens remain missing after a catastrophic weather event, McKay is visibly shaken. “There was one family that lost both their children… and the grandparents are still missing,” she recounts. “I just can’t even begin to wrap my head around what kind of shock and pain these people are experiencing.”
For McKay, the tragedy coincided with a beach weekend in Florida—a juxtaposition that sparked what she calls “bystander’s guilt.” This emotional whiplash, she explains, is part of the journalist’s burden: experiencing the world’s worst moments while knowing life elsewhere continues uninterrupted. “The news cycle moves on. But the pain doesn’t,” she says.
Her co-host offers a touching anecdote: a video she sent him of putting her daughter Raven to sleep, whispering “I love you” in a voice that, he says, captured the very essence of empathy. In those three words, he heard something deeper: “You’re important. I don’t want to lose you. I feel the pain that others are feeling right now.” It was a moment that encapsulated everything that journalism—at its best—can offer.
Bureaucracy, Empathy, and Inaction
But empathy, McKay warns, doesn’t always translate into action. And when it doesn’t, bureaucracy takes over.
Dennis points to Los Angeles, where wildfires earlier this year caused billions in damage. While early responses were swift and seemingly empathetic, that urgency quickly gave way to administrative inertia. “Bureaucracy is not a great place for empathy to live,” he says.
It’s a pattern McKay knows too well. Stories fall out of the news cycle long before their impacts fade. The public forgets. Governments slow down. And vulnerable people start falling through the cracks.
“When empathy fades, inaction sets in,” Dennis observes. McKay agrees—and admits journalism itself bears some responsibility. “Journalism doesn’t have the power it used to,” she says. Not because journalists are less dedicated, but because audiences are overwhelmed and fractured by conflicting narratives, misinformation, and a nonstop digital din.
“In the past, a human-interest piece could shift public opinion or policy,” McKay notes. “Now, it’s like shouting into a void. You’re hoping someone hears. But it’s harder to make people care.
Can Empathy Be Taught?
If the institutions we once trusted—government, media, community leaders—struggle to inspire compassion, where do we turn?
McKay places the responsibility squarely on the individual. “No external source can tell us how to think,” she insists. “Empathy is something that must be cultivated from within.”
It’s not sympathy, she emphasizes. It’s not feeling sorry for someone from a distance. It’s the active and often painful exercise of imagining yourself in someone else’s place—of sitting with their experience long enough to let it change you.
“Empathy is like a muscle,” she says. “If you don’t use it, it fades.”
Still, she acknowledges the toll. Constant exposure to suffering can leave journalists numb, detached. “There was a point in my career where I had to remind myself that not reacting to tragedy wasn’t normal. That scared me.”
The solution, she says, is balance. A journalist—or any human being—must learn to protect their emotional bandwidth without disengaging from the world entirely. “We can’t carry every burden. But that doesn’t mean we can’t care.
Journalism in an Age of Noise
One of the interview’s most sobering themes is the diminished influence of traditional journalism. Once considered a fourth estate, today’s media struggles for attention amid algorithmic chaos and politicized narratives.
“There’s just so much noise,” McKay laments. “So many voices, so much distrust. People gravitate toward echo chambers, and that dilutes journalism’s ability to reach across divides.”
She believes that empathetic storytelling still matters—but it needs to evolve. The future, she suggests, might not lie in institutional journalism at all, but in smaller, more personal media projects—documentaries, podcasts, long-form interviews—where audiences can connect on a human level without the veneer of objectivity that often alienates rather than enlightens.
“I think people are tired of sterile reporting,” she says. “They want to feel something.
A Path Forward
Looking ahead, McKay doesn’t pretend to have all the answers. She’s witnessed too many disasters—natural and human-made—to believe there’s a silver bullet. But she does believe there’s a way forward, one rooted not in sensationalism or despair, but in compassion.
“There will be another disaster,” she says. “Probably another hurricane in North Carolina. The question is: Will we care?”
If we do, she believes journalism still has a role to play—not by telling us what to think, but by reminding us how to feel.