This week I found myself back in Seattle, staying in Greenwood while my dad underwent major cancer surgery. With my two kids – Bailey, almost 9, and Arbor, 7 – in tow, I decided to do something unconventional: take them on a walk through one of the city’s most troubled areas. We headed down toward Highway 99, near 97th Street, a stretch with open prostitution, visible drug use, and people living on the margins. It’s not exactly the kind of place you’d think to bring young children. But I wanted my kids to see humanity in all its forms – the raw, unvarnished reality of people our society often ignores. So, we set out hand-in-hand to catch a bus into downtown.
From the moment we stepped out, the lessons began. At the bus stop on Aurora Avenue, a few hardened faces loitered around – eyes glazed, clothes rumpled, perhaps high or homeless. I’m a big guy (72.5" tall and 205 pounds), so most people decide its best to not mess with me. But I was very aware of my kids at my sides, their small hands in mine, taking in sights that most parents might shield from them. I didn’t shield them. Instead, I quietly pointed out what was around us: people who looked lost, people who might be sick or addicted, people with stories in their eyes. The Metro bus pulled up with a hiss, and I asked the driver how to pay since it had been ages since I’d ridden. He just waved us on for free. As we boarded, I noticed an odd new feature: the driver’s seat was behind a transparent barricade that automatically closed – a precaution because drivers have been assaulted so often these days. My kids gave it a curious glance. I explained softly that sometimes people in the city can get aggressive, so this shield keeps the driver safe. It was a small hint of how rough the environment has become, but also of compassion – the driver saw a dad with two kids and let us ride without fare. In that gesture, I felt a welcoming amid the chaos.
We rode south into the heart of downtown, eventually hopping off around 3rd Avenue. This stretch of 3rd has long been notorious as an epicenter of Seattle’s street crisis. Even in the middle of a weekday, the sidewalks were dotted with figures that many would label “street people”. In a single block we walked past the faces of mental illness and addiction: a man muttering angrily to himself, swatting at invisible foes (schizophrenia, perhaps); another slumped against a wall with a piece of foil and a lighter in hand, eyes rolling back from the grip of fentanyl; a cluster of wiry guys in hoodies at the corner quietly exchanging small packets for cash (open-air drug dealers, unmistakably); two women in spandex mini-skirts and heavy makeup leaning into car windows, plying sex work in broad daylight. It was a gauntlet of hard living – the kind of scene that makes many people recoil and avert their eyes.
Yet here we were, walking right through it, my daughter on my left and son on my right, each firmly holding my hand. I could feel their little fingers tighten slightly whenever someone particularly disheveled or erratic passed by. They were seeing everything – and I was proud of them for seeing everything. Not scared, not crying, just watching. I didn’t sense fear in them, more a kind of sober curiosity. They had questions, I’m sure, but in the moment they just observed quietly. And what struck me most was that, as we made our way through this suffering crowd, everyone respected the children. In fact, the entire atmosphere shifted as we walked by.
It was subtle, but I noticed it keenly as a parent: even the highest person stumbling in a fentanyl haze glanced at the kids and stood a little straighter; the men who had been loudly bantering over their deals went almost silent, nodding to me as I guided my two small kids past them; one of the women dressed for the trade pulled her jacket closed and stepped aside, as if to shield my daughter from seeing her state of dress. I made eye contact with a weathered-looking gentleman taking a drag from a cigarette, and from half a block away I watched him nervously realize we were approaching. By the time we reached him, he had hidden the lit cigarette behind his back, smoke wafting over his shoulder, and he gave me a respectful nod as we passed – as if to say “I’m sorry, I don’t want to blow smoke near the kids.” In that moment my heart just about melted. Here was a man who looked like life had chewed him up – face lined, hands trembling, clothes reeking of hard nights – yet he still had the decency to spare a thought for two children’s well-being.
Walking third avenue with my kids, I saw flickers of humanity in people our society often writes off. Despite addiction, despite mental illness, despite desperation – there were still people in there. People who remember what innocence is, who don’t want to corrupt it. People who, even if they’ve lost their way, haven’t completely lost their sense of right and wrong when it comes to children. It nearly brought tears to my eyes, because it was so unexpected and so beautiful. I went in expecting to teach my kids a lesson about compassion, and these so-called “lost” people ended up teaching me something too.
I haven’t always been this willing to confront Seattle’s dark side. In fact, for a long time the city’s street scene terrified me. I still vividly remember the first time I ever brought my kids downtown, a couple years ago. We were driving through the city and got stopped at a red light on Cherry and 1st. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man on the sidewalk suddenly collapse like a puppet whose strings were cut. He fell straight to the ground and hit his head on the concrete with a sickening thud. I’ll never forget that sound. My daughter Bailey saw it happen too. Her eyes went wide and she asked me, “Daddy, why did that man fall down and hit his head?” In that instant, I felt panic and heartbreak all at once. The light was red; we were trapped there, witnessing this unfolding tragedy. The man wasn’t moving. A small crowd had started to gather, and I realized we were likely watching someone overdosing. It was the first time my young children had ever seen something like this – and honestly, it was the first time I had seen it up close with them in the car. I remember my throat tightening and tears welling up. I didn’t know how to explain this to such innocent little eyes. But I knew I had to say something. So I told her the truth in the simplest way I could: “He took too many drugs, and it made him very sick. We’re calling an ambulance to help him.” We did call the paramedics. I reassured my kids that help was on the way and that the ambulance would take care of him. The light turned green and we had to drive on, leaving that horrifying scene behind, but the image never left us.
That day shook me to my core. It broke my heart and it opened my eyes. I realized that I couldn’t pretend these things don’t happen – not to myself, and not to my children. Shielding them completely would be a disservice, because eventually they will encounter the world’s harsh realities. Far better that I be there to help them process it than for them to face it alone or, worse, grow up oblivious and lacking empathy. After that incident, I resolved that I would not look away or “see no evil” just because it was uncomfortable. If anything, it steeled my determination to confront this human suffering and to include my kids in that conversation when appropriate.
Yet I also understood why so many people do look away. It’s painful to see a fellow human lying on the pavement, possibly dying, while everyone else hurries about their business. It’s easier to adopt a hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil approach – to cover our ears and eyes and mouths and pretend it’s not happening. I’ve seen it firsthand: in Seattle, I’ve watched pedestrians literally step over a prone, unconscious body on the sidewalk, chatting to their friend about lunch plans as if they had just stepped over a puddle. Paramedics might arrive and work frantically on an overdose victim, and passersby will merely cast a cursory glance or not even break stride. This collective indifference, this normalizing of human beings dying on the street, is a soul-deep kind of societal neglect. It scared me and angered me for a long time. It felt like a glimpse of some dystopia where we’ve all become so numb that a man’s life hanging by a thread means nothing. And if I’m honest, I too have been guilty of averting my eyes – out of fear, out of not wanting to get involved, out of the sheer emotional overload of it all. Denial is a defense mechanism, and it can be comforting to pretend things aren’t as bad as they really are out there.
On our walk down 3rd Avenue, I wanted to break that pattern for myself and for my children. No more “ignorance is bliss” – I wanted us to face it, feel it, and learn from it. And what we discovered was not just the expected suffering, but also unexpected grace. The way those troubled individuals moderated their behavior around my kids was incredibly humanizing. It reminded me that these folks we label as “addicts,” “crazies,” “prostitutes,” or worse are not monsters. We often treat them like some kind of separate species – I’ve even heard people joke about them being like “lizard people” or “zombies.” It’s true that in the depths of addiction, a person can look and act almost unrecognizable, their humanity buried under layers of chemical dependency and mental illness. But spend a little time with someone in recovery – even just a couple of weeks clean – and you’ll see the person re-emerge. I’ve met former addicts who seemed completely “gone” in their worst days, but once they got clean for a short while, it’s like a fog lifted and a real human being was back in front of you. That core person was there all along, just smothered by the drugs.
Knowing this, I refuse to accept the easy dehumanizing narrative. The people we saw on the street are someone’s child, possibly someone’s parent, sibling, friend. They’ve lived full lives; they have memories, talents, and dreams buried under their pain. Many of them have experienced trauma and failures of the system that would break the strongest of us. By walking among them with my kids, by exchanging nods and brief words, I wanted to convey to my children that these are people, not problems. Yes, they are suffering. Yes, some are dangerous or unstable in their current state – you do have to be careful. I kept my kids close and remained alert the whole time. But we did not sneer at them, we did not hurry past in revulsion. We treated them with the basic respect every human being deserves – and overwhelmingly, they returned that respect to us.
Bailey and Arbor got to see this with their own eyes. They saw that when you acknowledge someone – even just with a look or a nod – you remind them (and yourself) of their humanity. My daughter later said to me that the people on the street seemed “sad.” Not scary, just sad. My son observed that “they were nice to us.” Out of the mouths of babes comes truth: they were nice to us. In their own troubled way, they showed kindness. And I think my kids picked up on that. They didn’t come away from this experience screaming or traumatized; they came away thoughtful. Maybe a little quieter than usual, processing what they saw. And that’s exactly what I hoped for – to spark empathy, not fear. To have them understand that these are not “bad people” to be ridiculed or run from, but people in a bad situation who need help.
In my previous posts, I’ve been building a thesis about the deeper causes of our social crises. Walking through Seattle’s underbelly with my children tied all those threads together for me in a very personal way. We often talk about the homelessness, addiction, and mental health crisis as failures of policy or systemic breakdowns – and they are. Lack of affordable housing, inadequate mental health services, insufficient addiction treatment programs, misguided law enforcement approaches – all of these factors form a tangled web that traps people on the streets. It’s easy to blame “the system” or “bad policies” for creating this mess. But what I’ve come to realize is that behind every policy and every systemic failure is human emotion (or the lack thereof). Our society’s responses – or non-responses – to these vulnerable people are ultimately driven by what we feel (or prefer not to feel).
Think about it: Policies are made (or not made) by leaders who answer to the public’s attitudes. And too often, the public sentiment has been guided by fear, disgust, indifference, or despair when it comes to the homeless and addicted. These emotions lead to societal neglect – a collective decision to look the other way. We vote for measures that push the problem out of sight, out of mind, rather than for measures that would bring real rehabilitation or support. We tolerate city ordinances that criminalize homelessness or drug possession without offering solutions, because it’s easier to say “not in my backyard” than to confront the complex, messy reality of helping these people. We underfund mental health care and addiction recovery programs, because deep down many folks feel “it’s not my problem” or they erroneously believe those suffering brought it on themselves and thus don’t deserve extensive help. These are emotional judgments, not rational ones – stemming from fear, stigma, and a lack of empathy.
On the flip side, when there are moments of progressive policy (like opening a new treatment center or funding supportive housing), they often come because enough people were moved – emotionally provoked – to demand change. Perhaps a heartbreaking story went viral and pricked the conscience of voters, or a community reached a breaking point where compassion finally outweighed fear. Human emotion is the driver on both ends: it can fuel neglect and it can fuel action. Unfortunately, for a long time the dominant emotions around this issue have been negative and avoidance-driven. We as a society have essentially said, “We don’t want to see this.” And so, the crisis persists, largely unattended or addressed by half-measures, which then fuels the systemic failure we see on the streets. It’s a vicious cycle: our emotional discomfort leads to neglectful policies, which lead to broken systems, which create more misery that we then further recoil from.
Breaking that cycle requires changing our emotional stance – collectively. It means replacing fear with courage, replacing disgust with compassion, and replacing apathy with empathy. It’s not an easy ask; human emotion isn’t something you flip on like a switch. But personal experiences can change hearts, and changed hearts can change minds, and that eventually changes policy. I believe that’s why it was important to bring my kids to witness Seattle’s reality. They are the next generation of voters, leaders, and community members. If they grow up seeing and feeling for those less fortunate, rather than instinctively looking away, maybe they’ll help craft a society that doesn’t abandon its own.
After our long walk through what some might call “the belly of the beast,” we headed back to the bus stop. My son squeezed my hand and asked quietly, “Are those people gonna be okay?” I didn’t have a simple answer. I told him, “I hope so. I hope they get the help they need.” On the bus ride home, we talked gently about what we saw. We talked about drugs, in an age-appropriate way – how they can trick your brain and make you sick, how some people get stuck and need extra help to get better. We talked about mental illness – how the brain can get sick just like the body, and how it’s not anyone’s fault. Mostly, I let the kids do the talking and questioning, and I listened. They were processing compassion, trying to understand rather than judge. I felt a cautious sense of pride and hope. This day had affected them, and I suspect in a good way.
Reflecting on it now, I feel more convinced than ever about what I’ve been trying to say all along: We, as a society, cannot keep turning away. Avoiding downtown, avoiding the hard conversations, avoiding eye contact with those suffering – none of that will make the problems disappear. In fact, that avoidance is the problem. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil – it’s a recipe for allowing evil to fester. By pretending it’s not our problem, we ensure that it continues. If everyone with the luxury to avoid these troubled streets simply stays away, then who’s left on those streets? Only the people in crisis themselves, isolated in an echo chamber of misery. No witnesses, no helpers, no pressure for change.
I’m not naive; I know one stroll with my kids isn’t going to fix Seattle’s issues. But it fixed something in me. It tore down another layer of my own fear and hesitation. It reminded me that at the core of this crisis are human beings who still respond to kindness and respect. Even in a fentanyl fog or a schizophrenic break, a spark of decency remains – like that man hiding his cigarette so as not to hurt a child, or that dealer lowering his voice and nodding politely as we walked by. Those moments are like tiny beacons, signaling that these folks are still here with us in the human family, not irredeemable “others.” And if they are still human, then we owe them human compassion.
I wish more people would reconsider their relationship to places like downtown Seattle. Instead of declaring “I won’t go there anymore” (as many have, out of frustration or fear), what if we did the opposite? What if we showed up? What if more parents took their kids, not to gawk or play savior, but just to be present and not look away? What if communities engaged with the homeless in their neighborhoods, learning their names, hearing their stories? What if our default reaction wasn’t disgust but concern? I truly believe the only way to heal this wound in our society is to be with the people who are hurting. You can’t help someone you’ve shut out of your heart. You can’t solve a problem by pretending it’s not in front of you. Healing happens through connection. That might mean volunteering at a shelter, supporting a harm-reduction program, voting for compassionate policies – or something as simple as acknowledging a person on the street with a smile instead of rushing past.
As for my children, I know that I can’t manufacture their opinions or dictate their feelings. But I can expose them to reality and guide them towards empathy. Kids have a natural sense of justice and caring; they tend to understand at a gut level that hurting people need help, not scorn. I saw that in my daughter’s and son’s eyes as we talked about the day. I saw no hatred, no superiority – just concern and a kind of puzzled sadness. In time, that can mature into motivation to do something positive. I want them to keep that flame of empathy alive. The world will try to douse it with cynicism and fear, but if they remember walking down Third Avenue seeing not monsters but fellow humans, maybe that memory will inoculate them against apathy.
We have to stop hiding from our brothers and sisters in pain. I took my kids into the heart of a suffering city because I refuse to teach them the easy lie that “it’s not our problem.” It is our problem – all of ours – because those are our fellow human beings living and dying on those sidewalks. And the only way to even begin solving it is by facing it. By being there with them in some capacity. By seeing, hearing, and yes, speaking about the ugly truths, so that we can start working on solutions.
I don’t regret our little field trip one bit. In fact, I consider it one of the most important walks I’ve ever taken as a father. My kids saw humanity that day – the ugly parts, the beautiful parts, the whole picture. They saw people at rock bottom, and they also saw small acts of respect and kindness in unlikely places. In other words, they saw hope amid the despair. And so did I.
I won’t pretend everything is fine in Seattle; it’s not. But I no longer feel comfortable just being afraid of the city or avoiding it. Instead, I feel a responsibility to engage with it, to help if I can, even if that just means not ignoring those who are suffering right in front of me. I hope I passed a bit of that mindset to my children. If each of us resists the urge to look away – if we choose presence over avoidance – we might finally start turning the tide. One person, one day, one compassionate gesture at a time, we can prove that see no evil is not the way. See the pain, hear the cry, speak the truth, and step toward it – that is the only way we heal people, and the only way we heal our society.