This week, I found myself unsettled.

Not angry. Not outraged. Just unsettled.

After news broke of James Van Der Beek’s passing, his family set up a GoFundMe campaign. Within days, Americans donated more than two million dollars.

Two million.

Before I go any further, let me say this clearly. This is not an attack on his family. Grief is real. Loss is painful. And people have every right to support whoever they choose.

But we cannot ignore what that number represents.

Because at the same time those donations were pouring in, there were families in neighborhoods across this country struggling to pay for chemotherapy. Parents deciding between rent and medication. People without a platform. Without fame. Without millions of strangers who feel emotionally connected to their face.

Most of their GoFundMe pages will never see ten thousand dollars. Some will not see one thousand.

So I started asking myself a question.

Why does fame activate our empathy faster than proximity?

The Illusion of Intimacy

Part of the answer is psychological.

We live in a culture built on parasocial relationships. We grow up watching actors, listening to musicians, following public figures online. We see their faces repeatedly. We hear their voices. We learn their backstories. Over time, familiarity turns into emotional attachment.

It feels like we know them.

But we do not.

We know the version presented to us. The edited interviews. The curated posts. The characters they played. Our brains do not fully separate exposure from relationship. So when something happens to them, it feels personal.

There is nostalgia involved. For some people, that celebrity represents a chapter of their own life. Childhood. College. A particular season. So when the celebrity suffers, it feels like a piece of their own story is being shaken.

That emotional reaction is real.

But it is also one sided.

They do not know us. They are not in our daily lives. They are not connected to us in any mutual sense.

And yet our empathy moves quickly.

The Convenience of Distant Compassion

There is another layer here that is harder to admit.

Helping someone famous is simple.

You click a link. You donate. You feel something. You move on.

There is no long term obligation. No awkward follow up. No sustained involvement. You are not required to sit with someone’s pain in real time. You are not asked to rearrange your schedule. You are not pulled into the messiness of real relationship.

It is clean.

Helping a neighbor is different.

It requires conversation. Vulnerability. Accountability. It might require you to show up more than once. It might require sacrifice. It might become inconvenient.

That does not mean people are heartless. It means we often choose the version of empathy that costs us the least.

Distant empathy is emotionally intense but practically light.

Proximity is emotionally complicated and practically demanding.

So we gravitate toward the former.

When Visibility Becomes Virtue

There is also a cultural distortion at work.

Somewhere along the way, we started equating visibility with value.

Fame began to function like a moral amplifier. If someone is widely known, their life feels larger. Their suffering feels heavier. Their needs feel urgent.

But why?

Does a person’s worth increase because millions recognize their face? Does tragedy weigh more when it belongs to someone with a Wikipedia page?

Of course not.

Yet our behavior suggests otherwise.

We treat celebrities like they are elevated beings. Not just talented. Elevated. As if visibility itself makes them more significant than the rest of us.

It is subtle, but it is there.

We defend them more fiercely. We excuse behavior we would not tolerate in ordinary life. We invest emotionally in their story arcs. We speak about them as if they are part of our extended family.

At some point, admiration crossed into something else.

When fame becomes divinity, everything else starts to look smaller by comparison.

The Attention Economy

We also have to acknowledge the system.

Media outlets prioritize celebrity stories because they drive engagement. Social platforms amplify famous names because they generate clicks. Algorithms reward familiarity and recognition.

Our emotional energy is constantly being directed.

If a celebrity posts about an illness, it spreads instantly. If an unknown single mother posts about her medical bills, it barely leaves her immediate circle.

It is not just that we care more about celebrities. It is that we are repeatedly shown their suffering, framed in compelling ways, and invited to respond.

Attention is currency. And the most famous always get the largest share.

The question is not whether we are generous. Clearly we are capable of generosity.

The question is who gets access to our generosity and why.

The Moral Discomfort

Here is the part that matters most to me.

This is not about telling anyone to stop supporting artists, actors, musicians, or public figures. Appreciation is not the problem. Grief is not the problem. Generosity is not the problem.

Misalignment is the problem.

If we can raise two million dollars in days for someone we have never met, then we have proven something powerful about ourselves. We are capable of mobilizing quickly. We are capable of collective compassion.

So why does that urgency not extend equally to the people closest to us?

Why does visibility trigger value?

Why does distance feel easier than responsibility?

It is uncomfortable to ask those questions because they force us to examine our own priorities. They force us to consider whether we have been shaped more by culture than by conviction.

And none of us like to admit that.

Rebalancing Without Shaming

This is not a call to withdraw from culture. It is a call to rebalance.

Imagine if the same urgency we bring to celebrity tragedy was brought to local suffering.

Imagine if we checked on our neighbors with the same intensity that we refresh celebrity news.

Imagine if we treated ordinary lives as inherently worthy of attention, not because they are trending, but because they are human.

Fame does not make someone more human than the rest of us.

It only makes them more visible.

And if we are not careful, we start to worship visibility.

We do not need less empathy in this country.

We need better direction.

If we are going to be a society that mobilizes quickly, let us make sure we are mobilizing toward people who actually share our streets, our schools, our communities.

Because when fame becomes divinity, real human connection quietly gets demoted.

And that should make all of us pause.