When Pain Is Compared, Humanity Is Lost

I have often observed how quickly people say “I went worse”—a sentence that quietly nullifies another human being’s pain. When someone shares a hardship, instead of listening, we instinctively compare, justify, or override their experience with our own. As I sit at tables and listen to conversations, this pattern repeats itself. Pain becomes a competition rather than a moment for connection. What is lost in that moment is not logic, but humanity.

Another pattern I observe is even more unsettling. When someone has gone through a divorce, heartbreak, financial downfall, or the loss of a loved one—and another person later goes through something similar—we often fail to empathise. Instead of softening, some people push the other away, minimise their pain, or make them feel smaller. I believe this behaviour is deeply linked to unhealed trauma. When pain is unresolved, seeing another person suffer can activate one’s own suppressed wounds. The mind then protects itself through distancing, superiority, or ego—“I survived, so you should too.”

Psychologically, this is not empathy; it is defence. Research in psychology shows that people who have not processed their own trauma often struggle with emotional attunement. The brain’s threat system activates—particularly the amygdala—making compassion feel unsafe. Instead of responding from the prefrontal cortex, which allows reflection and empathy, people react from a place of survival. What looks like cruelty is often unresolved pain, masked as strength.

I have also observed how privilege changes how pain is perceived. When you come from a less privileged background, your suffering is often dismissed, normalised, or expected. The same pain, when experienced by someone with status or resources, is treated with seriousness and sympathy. This difference is not accidental; it is social conditioning. Sociology and behavioural science both show that humans unconsciously assign value to suffering based on social rank. Yet biologically, pain does not discriminate. The nervous system responds the same to loss, betrayal, illness, and grief—regardless of wealth, nationality, or social standing.

In my field of work, observation is essential. Understanding behaviour and perspective matters deeply to me. But this way of seeing people did not begin with my profession; it began in childhood. I often wonder why we treat each other differently when, at our core, we come from one source. In the marketplace, yes—we may differ in material possessions. But in sickness and death, we are no different. The body fails the same way. The heart breaks the same way. Grief weighs the same on the nervous system.

One observation from my student days at CHSE remains vivid in my mind. I was walking on the road when I saw a group of boys I knew—some from well-off families. A man on a bicycle was passing by, carrying items. I do not know his nationality, but I knew he was not Maldivian. One boy kicked the bicycle while the man was riding. He fell. The others laughed. I stood there as an observer, unable to take it, and asked them what they were doing. They looked at me briefly and walked away into a café, as if nothing had happened.

But I did not forget the man’s face. In his eyes, I saw something deeper than shock. I saw familiarity—like this was not the first time. A learned helplessness. Psychology describes this state as a condition where repeated injustice teaches the mind that resistance is useless. No human being deserves to be treated this way. When a person is pushed into helplessness by circumstances beyond their control, survival often depends on changing inner thoughts—because the external world has shown no mercy.

Another story was shared with me by an individual. A woman who fell deeply in life, after her husband brought his lover openly in front of their children. What devastated her most was not her own pain, but what it did to her children’s sense of safety. Today, she survives with the support of medication—because another human chose to emotionally destroy someone. These are not folk stories. These are real human lives.

From a scientific perspective, chronic emotional trauma reshapes the brain. Prolonged stress alters cortisol levels, impacts memory, weakens emotional regulation, and can lead to depression, anxiety, and physical illness. Words, actions, and neglect are not abstract—they leave neurological footprints. What we call “being strong” often ignores the biological cost paid by the human body.

From an Islamic perspective, this behaviour demands reflection. Islam does not measure people by status, wealth, or resilience displays. It measures hearts, intentions, and how we treat the vulnerable. The Prophet ﷺ reminded us that a believer is one from whose tongue and hands others are safe. Islam teaches rahmah—mercy—not comparison. The Qur’an repeatedly calls us to stand for justice, even when it is uncomfortable, and to never mock, belittle, or harm another soul. Pain is not a hierarchy in Islam; it is a trust.

When we minimise another person’s suffering, we are not showing strength—we are revealing disconnection. Healing begins when we stop comparing pain and start witnessing it. When we listen without correcting. When we sit with discomfort instead of escaping it through ego. Because in the end, humanity is not proven by how much we endure—but by how gently we treat one another when endurance is hardest.

These observations are not written to judge, but to invite awareness. If we paused more, listened more, and remembered our shared fragility, perhaps this world would feel less cruel—and more human.