Beyond the Repost Button: Turning Online Empathy into Real Action

By: Maaya Chander

Image created by AI

Witnessing the World Through a Screen

Open TikTok and the world unfolds in fragments. Bombed schools, protests, missing children, and stories from Gaza, Sudan, and Congo. The videos come raw and unfiltered, narrated by people who are living what we only witness through screens. It’s no longer possible to say “we didn’t know.” The internet has erased that excuse. For Gen Z, awareness is constant. Every scroll reminds us how much pain exists and how powerless we sometimes feel to stop it. The line between education and exposure blurs. The more we see, the more we post. But somewhere along the way, reposting started to feel like a substitute for action, as if awareness alone could solve systemic injustice.

The False Comfort of “Digital Doing”

Social media tricks us into thinking we’re making change simply because we’re talking about it. The share button becomes a moral reflex, an instant way to feel like we’ve contributed. And yet, after the story fades from our feed, what actually changes? That’s not to say reposting doesn’t matter. Awareness campaigns have saved lives, raised real money, boosted mutual aid links, and pressured governments to respond. When online traffic is directed toward legitimate organizations, donations and visibility increase. Grassroots creators on TikTok and Instagram have mobilized aid faster than many official institutions. These efforts are real, powerful, and necessary. But the problem begins when we mistake awareness for accountability. Reposting without reflection or follow-up turns solidarity into a performance. The internet rewards us for appearing informed, not necessarily for being involved. Empathy becomes something we display, not something we practice.

The Economy of Outrage

Our attention is currency. Platforms like TikTok and Instagram thrive on engagement. Every click, comment, and share feeds the algorithm. And algorithms don’t reward compassion or nuance; they reward emotion. The most intense content, the shocking, heartbreaking, or infuriating, spreads the fastest. That’s why tragedy travels farther than context. Suffering becomes scrollable, placed between lifestyle videos and outfit hauls. We don’t mean to consume it this way, but the platforms are built for it. Yes, they help us see what’s happening in Gaza or Sudan, but they also profit from our attention to it. We consume pain like media; pause, comment, scroll. It’s easy to call this consumerism of empathy “unethical” because it turns human pain into something we consume, something that briefly moves us before we scroll on. It feels wrong because empathy isn’t meant to be transactional or temporary. But at the same time, this is the system we’re all caught in. The same social media networks that amplify injustice are also the only reason many of us even know the truth. That’s the paradox: TikTok and Instagram are both lifelines and loopholes, spaces that spread awareness but also capitalize on it. So the goal isn’t to shame anyone for posting or for feeling overwhelmed. It’s to encourage what comes after and to keep carrying the story forward. 

Beyond the Feed

Real change doesn’t live in the algorithm. It lives in persistence and in what we do when the world stops watching. Caring isn’t supposed to be trendy or seasonal. Gen Z holds enormous collective power, but it means little if it ends with the share button. The internet can amplify a cause, but it can’t replace consistent, tangible effort. We have to treat digital engagement as the beginning of responsibility, not the end of it. That could mean donating directly to verified organizations, joining fundraisers, calling representatives, or simply listening to those most affected. It also means consuming content responsibly, lifting up credible voices, and making sure the people directly affected stay at the center of the story. Empathy shouldn’t have an expiration date. But the way social media works, it often does. We care loudly for a week, then move on. Real solidarity, though, is patient and continuous. Gen Z is often mocked for being “too online,” but in truth, we’re one of the most emotionally aware generations to exist. We’re just trying to navigate empathy in an age that monetizes it. When caring feels heavy, the answer isn’t to stop caring. It’s to care better. Not trendier. Just longer. Because the world doesn’t need our fleeting sympathy; it needs our endurance.