Being Brave Enough to Care and Act
· Being
What joy and heartbreak ask of us, and how we choose to respond.
This week’s reflection is heavier than most, and it includes a discussion of sexual violence. I’ve been thinking about how we remain open to the beauty people bring into the world while facing the terrible harm people cause. As a dad, these questions feel close to home, but they ask something of all of us. I wanted to share what one morning brought up for me, because being HumanKind requires us to examine how we respond when someone’s dignity and safety are at risk.
Tuesday morning, Sarah and I were sitting on a bus headed back to the airport after a client conference. We had about two hours ahead of us, and I was catching up on a couple of sports moments from the last few days. As a sports fan, I loved them. As a dad, I was getting teary-eyed.
The first was Justin Verlander finishing the final start of his career. His seven-year-old daughter ran out to the mound, and this man who had spent decades performing under pressure bent down to hug her and began to cry. He walked off holding her hand before joining his wife and their young son near the dugout. After all those years of competition, the moment that reached me most was a little girl embracing her dad.
Then there was Case Keenum, the Bears’ third-string quarterback, stepping in Monday night and helping lead Chicago to a 27–7 win over Philadelphia. It was his first NFL start since December 2023 and the first time his two young children had watched him play in person. Seeing his daughter join him afterward, watching him share that joy with his kids, got me all over again. I love a Bears win, but this reached a much deeper part of me.
While I was watching, I noticed Sarah beside me. Something was clearly upsetting her, so I asked what was going on. “Have you heard about the situation at Cornell?” I hadn’t. As she started telling me, the entire morning changed.
The World Doesn’t Give Us One Story
In her lawsuit, a former Cornell student describes being drugged and raped by seven fraternity members in October 2024. Reporting includes a Snapchat message inviting others to participate. The accused deny wrongdoing, and the criminal investigation has reopened. The violence described is disgusting, awful, and profoundly dehumanizing.
There is no gentle way to talk about rape, and I don’t want to soften its horror to make this easier to read. A person’s body, safety, and freedom to choose belong to them. A party, alcohol, drugs, or someone’s desire to fit in cannot make sexual violence acceptable. Taking someone’s account seriously and insisting on a thorough, fair investigation are responsibilities we can hold together.
Minutes earlier, I had been watching daughters reach for their fathers. Now I was thinking about a young woman and the pain described in her account. The joy hadn’t disappeared, but it was sitting beside anger and heartbreak.
As the bus continued toward the airport, I thought about being her dad, her friend. I thought about my own college years and how helpless and furious I would feel if someone I loved had been harmed this way. But she shouldn’t have to remind me of my daughters for her dignity to matter. Our compassion cannot depend on whether we recognize someone we love in another person’s face.
I write often about positive psychology, gratitude, kindness, and the incredible good people bring into the world. I believe those things deserve our attention. Writing honestly about being human also means facing what leaves us angry, heartbroken, and struggling for words. Believing in goodness brings a responsibility to confront cruelty.
The Conversations We Needed to Have
As our daughters started texting us about the story, Sarah and I each called them separately to talk. I wanted them to hear my voice and know how deeply I love and care about them. I wanted to continue helping them learn how to defend themselves and each other, recognize when something feels wrong, and get help without worrying about being embarrassed or disappointing me. The responsibility for someone else’s violence never belongs to them. I want them to know they can call me in any situation, and my first concern will be helping them get safe.
I also thought about conversations I’ve had with my boys about why girls often have their heads on a swivel. A walk to the car, a drink at a party, someone who won’t take no for an answer, or figuring out how to get home can carry concerns they may never have had to consider. Women can find themselves watching their drinks, checking who is behind them, sharing their locations, and making sure a friend isn’t left alone. This story made me want to revisit those conversations, including how exhausting that vigilance can be and how their own behavior can help someone feel safer.
I hope we’ve raised sons who will step up and do the right thing. But that hope deserves specific, ongoing conversations. What would you do if someone were too impaired to consent? If a friend became aggressive? If a message appeared in a group chat treating a woman as something to use? Friendship never requires helping someone cause harm or protecting them from accountability. I want all our kids to know they can call us when they need help taking action.
As parents, we spend years asking about grades, activities, careers, and what our children want to become. We also need to ask who they are becoming when someone vulnerable is in front of them. “Be a good person” leaves too much unanswered when the moment gets complicated.
Responsibility Doesn’t End With Seven
The men named in the lawsuit have become known as the “Cornell Seven.” But what about the people around them? Reporting describes 57 active fraternity members, though it isn’t clear how many were in the Snapchat group. Who saw those messages? Who recognized that someone needed help? What did they do?
Those questions matter. Being part of a fraternity doesn’t make someone responsible for everything another member does. But knowing someone is in danger and choosing to look away demands an accounting too. We need to understand who had a chance to help and how they responded. A person’s safety cannot depend on everyone assuming someone else will do something.
Psychologists John Darley and Bibb Latané explored this diffusion of responsibility in their research. In a staged emergency, participants were less likely to intervene promptly when they believed other people were also aware of it. Each person could leave action to someone else. That research cannot establish anyone’s motives in this case. It does expose a dangerous assumption we all need to challenge: that someone else will step in.
Elie Wiesel said, “Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” I hear that as a challenge to people who have the ability to help. Survivors have every right to decide whether, when, and how to speak about their experiences. Someone who recognizes danger and can seek help has a responsibility to act.
That can mean challenging a friend, bringing in someone who can intervene safely, or calling for emergency help. Someone’s safety matters more than keeping the night comfortable.
I also found myself thinking about privilege and the protection we offer people we care about. Money, education, social standing, and influential connections can give people access to resources and a stronger voice. Those advantages become dangerous when they shield harmful conduct from scrutiny or consequences.
As a parent and a leader, I have to ask whether I would insist on the same standards if accountability threatened someone close to me. Institutions face that question too. When concern turns to a young man’s promising future, is equal attention being given to the future of the person who says she was harmed? A fair process must take those questions seriously, regardless of status.
I understand wanting to protect your child. Loving our children also includes holding them accountable for harm they cause. We cannot teach dignity while treating another person’s safety as less important than our own child’s reputation.
Questions for Me, and for You
It is easy to read a story like this and condemn the people at the center of it. Sitting beside Sarah, I also had to ask myself uncomfortable questions. I’ve made mistakes in many of these areas throughout my life. I’ve learned from them, but that doesn’t erase their impact or mean I’m done learning. These questions ask something of me, and I invite you to consider what they ask of you.
When have I stayed quiet because speaking up would have made things awkward? When have I defended someone I liked before listening to the person they hurt? When have my own words or actions made someone uncomfortable, and how did I respond? Have I made a degrading joke or laughed along when someone else did? Have I dismissed someone’s discomfort because I didn’t want to examine my part in it? Have I let someone’s talent, charm, or importance to an organization become a reason to overlook their behavior?
Those choices are not equivalent to sexual assault. They do reveal the exceptions we make and the environments we help create. People learn what a group will accept by watching what gets challenged and what gets a pass.
What have my children learned from those moments? What have the people around you learned from yours? Our actions can make it easier for someone to speak up or easier for everyone to look away. I want to believe I would act with courage. Each of us needs to examine that belief before someone’s safety depends on it.
How Does Someone Live After This?
The other questions I couldn’t shake were about what comes afterward. How does someone recover from an experience like the one this young woman describes? How do they explain it to someone they love, enter another relationship, or move through an ordinary Tuesday carrying that pain? How does a person smile again while knowing something terrible has happened to them?
Seeing someone smile, work, or spend time with friends does not tell us they are fine. People deserve room to experience joy without having to prove their pain, and room to struggle without being told they should have moved on.
Research shows that our responses matter. In a longitudinal study of sexual assault survivors, researchers Sarah Ullman and Liana Peter-Hagene found that negative reactions to disclosure were associated with greater subsequent PTSD symptoms. Blaming, stigmatizing, or undermining a survivor can add to the burden they are already carrying.
Recovery is possible, and effective trauma treatments exist. The National Center for PTSD identifies evidence-based therapies that can reduce PTSD symptoms in survivors of sexual assault. Connection, pleasure, and joy can become part of life again without erasing what happened. Nobody owes us a recovery timeline or a story about how suffering made them stronger.
If someone shares an experience like this with us, we can begin by listening: “I’m glad you told me. You didn’t deserve this. What would feel helpful right now?” We can offer support without demanding details or taking control of their decisions. We can keep showing up after the first conversation, when our initial concern has faded but their need for care may still be there.
What Being HumanKind Requires
I believe we should let beautiful things move us deeply and let terrible things move us toward responsibility. That is the perspective I came back to on the bus. We help determine whether harmful behavior gets challenged, whether people feel safe speaking up, and whether someone in pain finds care or another closed door. My hope for humanity means more when it changes how I treat the people around me.
I still want to notice every beautiful moment I can. I want to celebrate a dad embracing his daughter and feel the full joy of it. I also want that tenderness to make me someone others can count on when the moment in front of them is anything but beautiful.
Go Be: Practice Before the Moment