In a story I once heard, a doctor looks at a brain scan and says something astonishing: “He’s developing empathy.” The idea stayed with me – that even the darkest mind can rewire itself through experience, connection, and care.
Science calls this neuroplasticity – the brain’s ability to change based on its experiences. Research shows that empathy isn’t fixed; it lives in parts of the brain that can grow stronger through compassion and connection, or weaker through trauma and isolation.
My heart sank when I heard about the tragic Bandar Utama school stabbing this week. A 14-year-old boy. A 16-year-old girl. A fatal stabbing on school grounds, in a respected, close-knit community known for good schools and safe streets.
Netflix’s series Adolescence (main image), came to mind. Art imitates life – or perhaps, life imitates art. We don’t really know anymore.
The headlines are unbearable: grief, disbelief, and endless questions. In such moments, pain quickly turns to blame. Fingers point in every direction – parents, teachers, social media, “today’s generation.”
Everyone offers a solution: “Bring back the rotan.” “Do more spot checks.” “Kids these days are too soft.” Or the familiar refrain, “In our time, if anyone had mental issues, the teacher would just say, ‘Deal with it!’ – and we did.”
But the truth is, today isn’t like yesterday. Not because there were no fights, bullies, or cruelties back then – there were plenty. Generation X wasn’t perfect; we just lived in a different kind of storm. When conflicts happened, they played out face-to-face, not for an audience of thousands online. We had room to make mistakes and learn from them quietly.
Today’s teens don’t get that privacy. Every misstep can be recorded, reposted, or ridiculed – magnified by algorithms that reward outrage over understanding.
Our children are growing up in an ecosystem we don’t fully understand – a digital world that blurs reality, numbs empathy, and amplifies loneliness.
I have two Gen Z children of my own, and it’s been tough (still tough) to navigate the noise. Part of why I speak with Gen Zs in my training is to understand them better – to decode their world.
Recently, I learned how easily danger can slip through. My son casually mentioned an app called Omegle, which used to connect strangers around the world at random. I was shocked. I asked him, “Did you and Kakak ever use it?” He replied, “Once, when we were kids, but we never showed our faces.”
That episode had escaped me completely. Looking back, it was a dangerous moment that could have gone very wrong – and yet at the time, I had no idea such a thing even existed. That’s how fast the digital world moves, often ahead of parental awareness.
And yet, I have deep respect for this generation. They are honourable in ways that often humble me. They are more open about mental health, more inclusive, and far more conscious about fairness than we ever were.
They question authority not out of rebellion, but out of a genuine desire to make things right. They care about the planet, volunteer, and speak up. In many ways, they are the generation working hardest to heal the damage left by ours.
We, their parents, grew up clued in to everything around us. We walked to school, fought with friends, made up, and learned from body language, tone, and consequence. We sensed people.
Today, many teens live within curated screens – flooded with content but starved of connection. Their friendships are algorithm-fed. Their heartbreaks unfold publicly. And when rejection, anger, or humiliation strike, there’s little pause between impulse and action.
I know of one influencer – beautiful, smart, worldly – yet constantly needing to prove herself to an online audience through wild, performative posts. Am I missing something here? Maybe not. Maybe that’s the validation loop this generation was handed.
If science has taught us anything, it’s that empathy isn’t innate – it’s built. Our brains grow through what we practise. If we raise children in echo chambers, where chasing likes replaces real listening and punishment replaces conversation, we weaken the very circuits that help them regulate emotion, build compassion, and find meaning.
So yes, it takes a village – not to control children, but to connect with them. Teachers, parents, peers, policymakers, and tech platforms each have a role in helping the next generation build emotional literacy.
Instead of “toughening up”, we need to teach up – to equip youth with tools to express their emotions, resolve conflict, and seek help.
Adolescence captures this reality all too well. The series follows a boy spiralling from online toxicity into real-world aggression – fuelled by humiliation, peer validation, and the false empowerment of social media echo chambers. It unpacks toxic masculinity, showing how boys who learn to hide their feelings or mistake control for strength eventually crumble.
It’s fiction, but painfully familiar. Many young people today are disconnected, desensitised, and at times desperate to be seen, heard, or simply to make a statement.
If anything can come from the Bandar Utama tragedy, it should be a moment of reflection – not just for reform, but for renewal. We need a return to humanity. Conversations at home. Listening at school. Communities that step in, not scroll past.
Because the real measure of a society isn’t how it punishes its young, but how it protects them before they break.
I don’t have the answers, but I know silence isn’t one – and nothing anyone can say will bring that 16-year-old back. That’s the saddest, and most obvious, reality.
