R3ciprocity.com - Prof David Maslach: Innovation; Research Life; Striving Towards Happiness

You’re not going to like this—but I’ve come to believe it’s true:

We’re not teaching people empathy.

Not in business school.

Not in PhD programs.

Not in most classrooms.

We’re teaching performance.

Frameworks.

Strategy.

Execution.

But not how to read a room.

Not how to ask:

“How is this person actually feeling right now?”

Or: “How do I show up in a way that helps, not harms?”

I used to think empathy was soft.

I now believe it’s the core skill that makes or breaks your success—

in research, in business, and in life.

The thing is… I’m naturally empathetic.

And for a long time, I assumed everyone else was too.

That people were good.

That they meant well.

That if I showed up with kindness, it would be returned.

That was wrong. Painfully wrong.

Empathy doesn’t work on everyone.

Some people take advantage of it.

Some people weaponize your kindness.

And the more you give, the more they take.

But that doesn’t mean you give up on empathy.

It means you learn to use it wisely.

Empathy is not weakness.

It’s not being a doormat.

It’s not endlessly giving.

It’s knowing when to give.

And when to walk away.

In my house, we talk about feelings.

We ask, “How do you think they felt?”

And I’ve seen the difference that makes with my kids.

A little empathy changes everything:

How you teach.

How you parent.

How you lead.

How you breathe in a room that doesn’t fully accept you.

But here’s the catch:

Empathy only works if you also protect yourself.

So if you’re the kind of person who gives…

Who senses everything…

Who gets crushed when you’re ignored or dismissed—

This is your permission:

You are not wrong. You are not soft. You are not naive.

You’re reading the world at a deeper level.

Just make sure you don’t burn out trying to fix it.

Empathy is your superpower.

But like all power, it needs boundaries.

At some point, you realize the climb they promised was never real. Maybe there isn’t a ladder. Maybe there’s no pinnacle.

You start to feel a shift—where you stop buying into this dream of “moving on up” and start accepting the world as it actually is. That doesn’t mean you give up. It means you embrace modesty. Simplicity. The birds and the bees. The tingly feeling when you realize: I’m doing OK.

It’s not about climbing anymore. It’s about finding peace with where you are and who you are. And when that happens—strangely—everything begins to change.

People will tell you it should be easier. They’ll say you’re doing it wrong. But until they actually stand up and do it themselves, they haven’t got a clue.

The truth is: it’s way frigging harder than you think it is. You will make mistakes. You will feel embarrassed. You will doubt yourself every single day. But your job is to keep going, to try your best, and realize that we all universally suck at this.

You have as good a shot as anybody else. Forget their noise. Get up. Try. Be willing to look foolish. That’s the only way anything real ever happens.

Ignore what other people expect of you. Reinvest everything into things that go up in value. That’s it. The trick is doing it for 30, 40, 50 years—even when nobody understands, even when it looks foolish. Get the boring degree. Drive the boring car. Make the ambiguous choices. Invest in yourself. In your family. In your future. You won’t see the payoff right away, but that’s the point. Keep doing it. Day in. Day out. That’s how it works.

I get it — I’ve felt it too. I grew up far from academic circles. I was the first in my family to go away, and it always felt like everyone else was just more polished, more confident, more… something. But after years in academia and building the R3ciprocity Project, I’ve learned that what looks like arrogance is often just insecurity, stress, and isolation. Most of us are introverts forced into strange performances. You’ll meet some kind ones, and some who act like they’ve made it. Just remember: everybody puts their pants on the same way. If you’ve ever felt small or out of place around someone with a PhD — you’re not alone. You are enough. You’re gonna be okay. Keep walking into those rooms and forgiving yourself when it feels awkward. You’re doing better than you think.

Nobody cares. You have to get to the moment where that’s just your thing. You walk past them. You say, “Whatever.” You don’t listen. You just keep going forward every day. Most people are deeply compliant. They’re in the here and now. They don’t get it. But you do. You’ve been humiliated. You’ve been broken. You’ve been ignored. And yet, you’re still going.

This isn’t about applause. This is about doing something for the greater good. It’s grinding. It’s expensive. It’s lonely. But if you’re still moving, still building, still saying, “I love myself for doing it,” then you’re doing something right.

Practice smiling from the heart. Practice wonder. And remember: every day, it’s a little bit of not listening. And every day, you get better at it.

I’m 45. I’m in the middle right now. I feel like I plateaued ten years ago, but I’m still moving up.” In this episode, I talk honestly about aging, the struggle with aging parents, and why I’ll never resonate with my mom. I share what it’s like to care too much, to realize that the roles have reversed, and to feel like your parents—your superheroes—no longer understand you. I open up about generational gaps, acceptance, walking as the happy pill, and the hard truth that “you can’t help people who don’t want help.” This is about learning to step back, love others as they are, and love yourself more.

I’ve been doing this for a long time—and I keep asking the same question:

Why do so many people disappear from academic research?

We tell ourselves it’s about intelligence. That people drop out because they weren’t smart enough.

But I think that’s a cop-out.

What I’ve actually seen is this: people leave because they don’t feel supported.

Yes, it takes grit.

Yes, it takes personal drive.

But the thing that keeps people going—year after year, failure after failure—is community.

And that’s exactly what’s missing for so many PhDs and researchers.

We burn people out.

We isolate them.

We make the process so cold and transactional that it breaks the spirit of even the brightest minds.

But what if we changed that?

What if the academic journey didn’t just leave people bitter and alone, but helped them feel loved, seen, and supported along the way?

That’s what I’m building with the Reciprocity Project.

It’s not perfect, but it’s a step toward something better—toward keeping more of us in the game for the long haul.

Because research doesn’t just need brilliance. It needs people who feel like they belong.

Someone reached out to me recently. They were interested in working together—but it became clear they hadn’t taken the time to really understand what I’m building.

This isn’t about ego. It’s about depth.

We’re taught to move fast, to skim, to pitch before we listen. But real innovation—like real relationships—requires a deeper dive.

Before we build something new, ask:

What already exists? What’s been solved? What’s working beneath the surface?

Most systems, ideas, and platforms are held together by years of invisible learning. When you ignore that, you don’t move faster—you end up starting from scratch and repeating old mistakes.

I’m not looking for quick wins or surface-level partnerships.

I’m looking for people who want to knead the dough slowly, fold in the right flavors, and build something that lasts.

If someone asks you to slow down and understand—don’t take it as resistance.

Take it as a chance to do meaningful work.

I’m super grateful for my parents. I know my mom listens to this—love you, Mom.

They taught me something really important: you don’t have to care about everything all the time. That might not sound profound, but it’s one of the most useful lessons I’ve ever learned.

There’s this pressure in the world to always be on—to always be pushing, performing, doing something big. But the truth is, if you care about everything, you’ll fall apart.

And if you care about nothing, nothing gets done.

So there’s this middle ground—this space between trying hard and letting go—and I think that’s where real life happens.

Some days, you push.

Some days, you rest.

And if you land somewhere in the middle? That’s more than enough.

That’s what I learned from watching my dad work in the garden. That’s what I learned from a life of quiet moments and thoughtful choices. And that’s the kind of wisdom I want to pass on.

Take care. And remember:

You don’t have to be on all the time.