I saw a woman crying in the grocery aisle yesterday, not because she was sick, but because her donation tracker hit zero. She wasn’t begging for money; she was grieving the moment her survival became someone else’s entertainment.

Let’s look at the hands behind this. I’m talking about the hands that tap the screen, the thumbs that scroll past tragedy until their eyes catch a face they recognize. We live in an era where medical emergencies are no longer just private family tragedies. They are public campaigns. They have progress bars. They have share buttons. And for many people facing catastrophic diagnoses, these platforms are the only lifeline left after insurance denies coverage or savings evaporate in weeks. I get it. Truly. If my husband got cancer tomorrow, I would sell my car, my jewelry, and maybe even my dignity to pay for treatment. There is no shame in needing help. But there is something heavier than need, something that settles into the bones of our culture when we start treating human suffering like a viral marketing campaign.

Stay with me here. Because we need to talk about what happens when you have to monetize your pain to survive. It’s not just about asking for cash. It’s about performing vulnerability in a way that feels palatable to strangers. You learn quickly that your story needs a hook. Your diagnosis needs to be framed not just as illness, but as injustice, or courage, or a fight against the odds. You become the CEO of your own tragedy. You write updates that balance hope with desperation. You post photos that are sad enough to make you cry, but dignified enough to not trigger disgust. And if you don’t meet the quota? If the donations dry up after the first wave of sympathy fades? Then you’re stuck in the silence of unpaid bills while your friends awkwardly stop asking how you’re doing because they can’t fix it. That silence is loud. It rings in your ears long after the notifications stop buzzing.

Then there’s the donor side. The rest of us, scrolling through our feeds, trying to feel useful. We see another campaign, and our hearts break, so we give twenty dollars. Then we see another one three days later. And another. Before you know it, you’ve donated to six different medical funds this month alone. You feel good about yourself, right? You feel connected. You feel like you’re part of the solution. But let’s be honest about the exhaustion. We are becoming numb. Not because we are cruel, but because we are overwhelmed. When every crisis is urgent, nothing is. When every story is a plea, the volume gets too high to hear clearly. We start to wonder if we’re helping, or if we’re just feeding an algorithm that profits from our empathy without addressing the broken systems that made us needy in the first place. Is it charity, or is it a distraction?

This brings us to the uncomfortable truth about who survives online. Research shows, and anyone who has looked closely knows, that certain stories get amplified while others go unnoticed. It’s not random. It’s about who looks like us, who speaks our language, who has the social capital to launch a campaign effectively. A young mother fighting leukemia might raise hundreds of thousands in a week. A single father with kidney disease might struggle to find five hundred dollars by month’s end. This isn’t about blaming the donors for being shallow. It’s about recognizing that crowd-funding relies on visibility, and visibility is a privilege. When we leave healthcare funding to the whims of internet trends, we aren’t solving the problem. We’re just letting the most photogenic sufferors win the lottery while everyone else waits in the dark. That’s where the real work begins. Not in writing better captions, but in questioning why we need them at all.

We tell ourselves that giving is an act of agency. That by clicking donate, we are taking back control in a chaotic world. And yes, it feels powerful. But does it actually empower the recipient? Or does it just transfer the burden of proof onto them? They have to prove they are worthy of help. They have to prove their life is worth saving. They have to justify their existence through metrics and milestones. This dynamic strips away dignity. It turns patients into projects and survivors into influencers. I met a man named David who had to crowdfund his heart transplant. He told me that by the time he received the organ, he felt more like a product than a person. He said he missed the days when his illness was just his business. When he didn’t have to thank a thousand strangers for every pill he took. He wanted to be sick, not sponsored. He wanted to be loved, not funded. And I think that distinction matters more than we realize.

So, what do we do? Do we stop giving? No. That’s easy to say, hard to live. But we need to shift our focus from emergency response to systemic repair. We need to advocate for policies that prevent medical bankruptcy in the first place. We need to support community health funds that operate on transparency and mutual aid, not viral spikes. We need to remember that compassion shouldn’t be a competition. When you see a campaign, ask yourself: is this person truly out of options, or is this a symptom of a broken safety net? If it’s the latter, then your donation is a bandage on a bullet wound. Keep using bandages if you must, but don’t forget to scream about the war. Let’s look at the hands behind this policy. Who wrote it? Who benefits? Who pays? These are the questions that matter. The ones that don’t fit in a bio line.

I want you to try something today. Next time you feel that pull to donate to a stranger’s medical fund, pause for ten seconds. Feel the urge. Acknowledge it. It comes from a good place. It comes from a desire to connect, to heal, to help. But then ask: what else could I do with this energy? Could I volunteer at a local clinic? Could I call my representative about healthcare access? Could I check on a neighbor who might be struggling silently? Crowd-funding is a tool, but it is a blunt one. It cuts deep and leaves scars. We can be better. We can build a world where no one has to perform their pain to stay alive. Where care is a right, not a reward for having a good story. It won’t happen overnight. It requires grit. It requires us to sit with the discomfort of knowing we can’t fix everything with a click. But it starts with seeing the humanity beyond the headline. Beyond the progress bar. Just the person.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring deeply, even when it hurts. I’m Ashling Scallon. Take care of each other. And take care of yourselves. Until next time.