Ink & Purpose: ✨ Teaching Empathy Through Fictional Eyes
“Fiction trains the heart to listen.”
Now that I have your attention—let’s take this adventure up a notch.
After last weeks article, 'The Compass of Story: Why Fiction Still Guides Us', my mind couldn't let go of the DM's I received.
Not only did people relate to what I was trying to express, it triggered something inside them.
Things from their childhood.
It made me think of a profound dad moment…
📖 The Story That Cracked His Shell
I remember the moment so clearly.
One of my sons—young at the time, all elbows and stubbornness—had just finished reading a book I’d handed him. I won’t name the title here, but the main character wasn’t particularly likable. Not at first. He was angry. Selfish. Made all the wrong choices. And my son hated him.
Until he didn’t.
After the last page turned, he closed the book slowly.
Quiet.
Thinking.
Then he looked up at me and said something that surprised me:
“He wasn’t trying to be a jerk. He was just scared.”
That’s when I saw it.
Not just understanding—empathy.
Not just recognizing behavior—but seeing beneath it.
That’s the magic of fiction.
It lets us see through someone else’s eyes without the defenses, the fear, the social stakes of real life.
It lets us practice feeling for someone—even if we don’t agree with them, even if we wouldn’t have made the same choices.
And that’s something our world is desperately lacking right now.
🧠 Empathy Is Not Automatic
We like to think that kids just know how to be kind. That people naturally “get” what it’s like to walk in someone else’s shoes.
But empathy isn’t instinctual. It’s taught.
Modeled. Practiced. Cultivated.
In a world where attention spans have shrunk and communication has been reduced to reactions and emojis, we’re losing the depth that builds understanding.
We’re quick to judge.
Quick to categorize.
Quick to cancel.
Slow to ask, “Why would they do that?”
And unfortunately, most modern systems don’t reward emotional depth.
They reward outrage. Applause. Echo chambers.
But fiction?
Fiction says:
“Wait. Let’s sit with this person for a while. Let’s feel what they feel, even if it’s uncomfortable.”
🌌 The Safe Space to Feel
Fiction is the only place where we can get close to the broken, the bitter, the lost—and not feel threatened.
It’s where we can:
Witness a selfish decision… and understand the fear behind it.
Walk beside a villain… and see their humanity.
Fall in love with a liar… and hope they change.
In a story, we are allowed to be uncomfortable. And that discomfort opens the door to compassion.
Think about Raistlin Majere.
One of the most complex, flawed, and often cruel characters in the Dragonlance saga. He thirsts for power. He resents his brother. He manipulates people.
But when you peel back the layers, you see something else:
A boy who was mocked.
A teen who suffered.
A man shaped by illness, rejection, and a mind too sharp to be content in silence.
We don’t excuse his choices.
But we begin to understand them.
And understanding is the seed of empathy.
That’s why readers love Raistlin—even when they disagree with him.
Because fiction gave us time to sit with his pain.
Or Take Wendell Dipmier…
Wendell Dipmier isn’t a warrior.
He doesn’t carry a legendary blade.
He isn’t naturally brave or bold or particularly brilliant.
He doesn’t have a tragic backstory that fuels him or a grand destiny he understands—he just wakes up one day, yanked out of normal life and thrown into a world that expects more of him than he thinks he can give.
He’s awkward.
Uncertain.
He second-guesses everything.
Half the time, he doesn’t even know why he’s doing what he’s doing—only that deep down, it feels right.
He’s not fighting for glory.
He’s fighting because someone needs to.
And that’s why people love him.
Because he’s us.
The part of us that wonders if we’re enough.
That shows up to life feeling unequipped and underqualified, just trying not to trip over our own feet while the world demands answers and courage and strength we’re not sure we have.
Wendell doesn’t win because he’s the strongest or smartest.
He wins because he keeps going.
Because even when he feels like a fraud, he steps forward again.
Because even when he fails, he gets back up.
And isn’t that what we all want?
Someone to tell us that showing up is enough?
That stumbling doesn’t disqualify us?
That being overwhelmed, uncertain, and terrified doesn’t mean we’re not the right person for the job?
Wendell is empathy in motion.
He makes space for readers to be flawed and still valuable.
To be scared and still worthy.
To be lost and still on the right path.
When we root for Wendell, we’re learning to root for ourselves—and for the people around us who are fumbling through their own battles in quiet ways no one sees.
Because fiction doesn’t teach us to love perfect people.
It teaches us to love real people.
And when we learn to see grace in characters like Wendell…
We start to see grace in our friends, our families, even in strangers.
We learn that sometimes the most heroic thing you can do…
is keep showing up.
🧬 What the Science Says
This isn’t just a storyteller’s hunch or creative fluff.
It’s neuroscience.
And the research backs it up.
…but before I start quoting things, let me provide full transparency here:
I don’t want to give you some impression that I know all this sciency-ish stuff. I’m not that smart. Seriously. That’s not a thing. My job is to tell stories and draw pictures.
I didn’t know anything beyond my personal experiences that good stories do good things.
The rest of this is 100% new to me. I had to look up and find evidence to back what my gut was already telling me. I just wanted to see if there was science to back my own beliefs and provide those smarter than me, with hard facts.
So…neener.
[gets down from soapbox]
In a 2013 study at the New School for Social Research, psychologists David Comer Kidd and Emanuele Castano tested how different types of reading affect our ability to understand other people’s thoughts and feelings. This ability is called “Theory of Mind”—and it’s essential to empathy.
They found something remarkable:
Reading literary fiction—not nonfiction, not genre pop fiction, but rich, character-driven narratives—significantly improved readers’ Theory of Mind.
Why?
Because when you read a well-written story, your brain doesn’t just observe the characters.
It becomes them.
🧠 What Happens Inside the Brain?
When we’re immersed in fiction, our brains activate the default mode network—a system that lights up when we imagine the inner thoughts and motivations of others.
This is the same neural system we use during:
Real-life social interactions
Conflict resolution
Reflecting on moral choices
Predicting others’ behavior
Emotional regulation
In other words:
Reading fiction is a kind of rehearsal for being human.
And the benefits go far beyond the reading session itself.
Regular engagement with fiction has been linked to:
🧭 Improved emotional intelligence (Goleman, 1995)
💛 Greater compassion and charitable behavior (Mar et al., 2009)
🤝 More effective conflict resolution and communication skills (Johnson, 2012)
🔍 Increased self-awareness and introspection (Oatley & Djikic, 2011)
📚 Relatable Example: Why To Kill a Mockingbird Still Changes Lives
Atticus Finch is more than a character—he’s a lens.
For decades, readers have walked beside Scout as she grapples with prejudice, injustice, and courage. But it’s Atticus, with his quiet dignity and moral clarity, who becomes a living example of what empathy looks like in action.
He defends a man he knows won’t be acquitted—not because he expects to win, but because it’s right.
Readers emerge from that book not just understanding injustice—but feeling it.
That’s empathy at work.
And science confirms: the more we engage with complex characters like Atticus, the more we mirror his mental and emotional framework in real life.
🎬 Even Film Tells the Same Story
While this article focuses on the written word, it’s worth noting that narrative immersion in any form can stimulate empathetic growth.
Watching Inside Out has been shown to help children better articulate their emotions.
Viewers of The Pursuit of Happyness or The Green Mile often report more sensitivity to poverty, racial injustice, and kindness under pressure.
Even superhero narratives like Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse expose young audiences to emotional depth, grief, family, and sacrifice—wrapped in colorful action.
image: Reddit
The point?
Stories train the heart through emotional simulation.
You don’t have to suffer a tragedy to understand grief.
You don’t have to live through oppression to feel injustice.
Fiction hands us the emotional “reps” our soul needs to become stronger, softer, and wiser.
📌 Scientific References [so you don’t have to take my word for it]:
Kidd & Castano, 2013 – Reading Literary Fiction Improves Theory of Mind
https://www.science.org/doi/10.1126/science.1239918Mar et al., 2009 – Exposure to Fiction Predicts Empathy
https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/19619181/Oatley & Djikic, 2011 – Fiction as Emotional Simulation
https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/1754073910387945Johnson, 2012 – Serious Reading Makes People More Empathetic (New York Times article)
https://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/25/opinion/sunday/the-importance-of-deep-reading.htmlDaniel Goleman – Emotional Intelligence (Overview and research portal)
https://www.danielgoleman.info/topics/emotional-intelligence/
🪞 When Fiction—and a Stranger—Taught Me Empathy
Back around 2008, I was deep into character development while traveling for work. I was in Boston with my business partners, writing during long stretches between meetings. The character I was working on was supposed to be a villain—controlling, proud, a little self-righteous. The kind of antagonist readers were supposed to distrust from the beginning.
But something wasn’t working.
The more I fleshed out his backstory, the more uncomfortable I became. Not with him—but with myself.
See, as I started shaping his motives, his fears, and the pain beneath his bravado, I saw something familiar. I saw my own judgments mirrored back at me. Not just about the character—but about real people. The people I worked with. The people I interviewed. The people I passed by and silently categorized without even knowing I’d done it.
One afternoon, I found myself sitting across from a man—covered in full-body tattoos, gauged ears, and an exterior that, truthfully, would have made me cross the street just a few years earlier. We wouldn’t have traveled in the same circles. We wouldn’t have spoken in any normal version of my world.
But I’d gotten to know him, just a little.
And what I discovered?
He was kind.
He was intelligent.
He was generous and funny and thoughtful in ways I hadn’t expected. And the more I saw that, the more I realized how wrong my assumptions had been.
So I asked him, “What’s your story?”
He looked confused.
So I explained, “What choices and events brought you here, today, to sit with me?”
And then I shut up.
And I listened.
What he shared with me didn’t just give context to his life. It cracked my heart wide open.
He told me about pain. About trauma. About choices that weren’t really choices at all. About loss and survival. And through all of it, he kept going. Kept building a life. Kept choosing kindness, even when no one had offered it to him first.
And as I listened, something hit me hard:
If I had gone through what he went through…
If I had been dealt those same cards, forced into those same corners…
I don’t know if I would’ve turned out as well as he did.
That moment changed how I write.
It changed how I see.
It made me return to my fictional “villain” with different eyes—softer ones. Curious ones. And I didn’t fix him to be more likable…
I wrote him more honestly.
Because the truth is, most people aren’t villains.
They’re just survivors.
And fiction gave me the training wheels to understand that—
But life handed me the test.
That man shaped me in ways he’ll never know.
That character ended up being one of the most complex I’ve ever written.
And the lesson I learned that day? It’s with me still:
Empathy isn’t just a story skill.
It’s a life skill.
It’s what lets us look past assumptions and see the soul inside the skin.
It’s what invites us to stop asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
…and start asking, “What happened to you?”
Fiction prepared my heart to ask better questions.
But a real person taught me how to listen for the answers.
💡 How Parents and Teachers Can Use Story to Grow Empathy
Here’s where the real magic happens—not in the textbooks or lectures, but in the quiet moments between pages. Fiction isn’t just entertainment. It’s a practice ground for empathy.
And the best part?
You don’t need a psychology degree to use it.
All you need is a story—and the willingness to talk about it.
Here are a few simple, powerful ways to turn any story into a doorway for growth:
📖 Read stories with your kids—and ask, “What do you think they were feeling?”
This one question changes everything.
Instead of asking, “What happened in the story?”
Ask:
“What do you think she felt when that happened?”
“Why do you think he made that choice?”
Even very young children can begin to make emotional connections when they’re invited to step inside a character’s experience. Over time, these small discussions create powerful habits of empathy.
You’re training them not just to observe, but to relate.
🔄 Talk about mistakes characters make—and whether you would’ve done the same.
Fiction is the safest place to fail. Characters mess up all the time. They lie, they lash out, they run from responsibility. But instead of judging them right away, open a dialogue:
“Have you ever felt like that?”
“What do you think they should have done instead?”
“Why do you think they thought that was the right choice at the time?”
The goal isn’t to correct the character—it’s to understand them.
And that reflection makes kids more patient with others in the real world… because they’ve already practiced seeing past the surface.
🎭 Let them defend someone in the story—even the “bad guy.” See what they notice.
Sometimes, the villain isn’t who we think they are.
Ask your kids:
“Was there anything about that character that made you feel sorry for them?”
“Do you think they were always like that, or did something happen to them?”
“What would’ve changed if someone had helped them sooner?”
Encouraging this kind of moral imagination—seeing not just who someone is, but who they might have been—is one of the most powerful tools for cultivating empathy.
It teaches children to ask better questions in the real world, too:
“Why is that kid always angry?”
“What might that teacher be going through?”
“Maybe they just don’t know how to ask for help.”
Fiction opens the door. You just have to walk through it with them.
🗣 Encourage disagreement—because empathy isn’t agreement. It’s understanding.
We live in a culture that tells kids they have to agree in order to get along. But that’s not empathy—that’s conformity.
Empathy says,
“I don’t have to agree with you… to care about you.”
“I can try to understand what it’s like to be you—even if I’d make a different choice.”
Let your child or student disagree with a character’s actions—but then ask:
“What would it feel like to be in their shoes?”
“What do you think they were afraid of?”
“What do you think they were hoping for?”
Disagreement creates space for discussion.
And discussion is the workshop of compassion.
🧠 Fiction Gives Kids a Safe Sandbox for Growth
Here’s the most important part:
Fiction is safe.
It’s not about them.
It doesn’t call them out.
It doesn’t put them on the spot.
But it is for them.
They can wrestle with right and wrong without shame.
They can test compassion without fear.
They can explore identity, forgiveness, justice, and grace…
…all through someone else’s life.
And in doing so, they become better equipped to live their own.
Because when kids learn to care about characters in a book—
They learn to care about people in real life.
🌱 Empathy is the Soul of Story
Every story we write or read is a chance to stretch our hearts.
To imagine a life we’ve never lived.
To carry burdens we’ve never known.
Fiction is the only tool I’ve found that teaches both truth and tenderness at the same time.
And if we want to raise a generation that listens before reacting…
That forgives before judging…
That looks past the surface and sees the soul—
Then we must give them stories.
And we must let those stories work on us, too.
🧭 Final Thoughts & Call to Action
If you’ve ever cried over a character, rooted for the underdog, or changed your opinion halfway through a story… that was empathy growing.
That was fiction doing what it does best.
So I invite you to keep going deeper with me.
Ink & Purpose continues every Wednesday—and we’re just getting started.
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Share this with someone who needs a little more understanding in their life.
And leave a comment:
What story softened your heart toward someone you once misunderstood?
Your words might open a door for someone else.
And never forget:
You are MORE than you THINK you are.
— Jaime
NEXT TIME: The Sacred Space Between Pages: Fiction as Sanctuary
If you’ve missed the series so far, here are the Why Fiction Matters links:
Very deep, and powerful observations.
I had never thought of fiction, or rather, stories in that way, but you're observations are spot on, and I enjoyed reading, and thinking about them.
Thanks.
Welcome.