Queer Eye Made Me Cry

On grief, human instinct, and our choice to evolve

Photo by MediaEcke on Unsplash

When Compassion Feels Rare

I was watching TV the other night, enjoying some “me time.” I felt restless and scrolled for what felt like five years, looking for comforting entertainment.

I finally landed on Queer Eye. I started at the beginning of the series because I like watching how shows evolve over time.

The first episode delivered on comfort as I watched a dedicated firefighter realize his own worth over the course of a week, after years of being a tireless hero. He’d spent his life prioritizing everyone else, thinking he didn’t deserve basic self-care like feeling good in his own skin.

Watching him slowly realize that he mattered too filled me with happiness.

The next episode introduced a 57-year-old man whose daughter had enlisted the help of the Fab Five. He was well-loved in his small town. Friendly. Quick to laugh, especially at his own expense. But there was a sadness in his eyes that didn’t match the humor.

He wasn’t sure how they could help him and said, “You can’t fix ugly.” My heart broke.

When one of them gently asked when he’d last felt good about himself, he replied, “Twelve years ago.”

Twelve years is a long time to carry that kind of weight.

He carried himself like someone who had slowly started believing he wasn’t worth much.

One of the guys looked at him and said, without hesitation, “You’re beautiful inside and out.”

It was a simple act of compassion. But it broke something loose in me that I realized, in that moment, I’d been suppressing for the past year. I understood that I was moved by that because compassion feels so rare right now. As much as I tried to avoid it, I acknowledged that I’d been feeling a deep sadness and sense of hopelessness.

What got me wasn’t the makeover, it was the way they spoke to him. They treated him like a person who had somehow forgotten his own value. They didn’t treat him like a project. They didn’t tease him or rush him or turn his insecurity into entertainment. They sat with him and listened. When one of them told him he was beautiful inside and out, it was sincere.

By the end of the week, after a haircut and the lifestyle changes, he looked lighter. It was obvious that he felt different and you could see the renewed hope in his sparkling blue eyes. He cried. The Queer Eyes cried. I cried.

There’s also another layer to the show that gets me every time.

It isn’t just about helping someone see their own worth, because that’s beautiful on its own. It’s about people who walk into that week carrying assumptions. Some of them admit, right on camera, that they never thought they’d want or need help from five gay men. Some of them clearly grew up with stereotypes or discomfort or distance.

And then they spend a week together.

They talk. They laugh. They cook meals. They share stories. They sit in vulnerability together. Then something slowly shifts. You can see it in their body language; the guarded posture softens. Respect replaces misconceptions.

That part moves me just as much as watching people’s reactions to their makeovers.

It’s harder to cling to a stereotype once you’ve been cared for by the very people you thought you didn’t understand.

Watching those transformations reminds me that a lot of fear is built in not knowing. In never having real contact beyond headlines or secondhand stories. When people fear differences, they cling to sameness because it feels stable.

What unsettles me is how quickly a person can be reduced to a label. How easily difference overshadows what we share at the most basic level.

I don’t understand, on a human level, how we forget so quickly that the person in front of us wants what we want—safety, dignity, and belonging. Those needs don’t change just because someone’s life looks different from yours.

As a woman, I’ve found myself thinking about my safety in ways I never had to before. I worry about the gay community. I worry about people whose skin isn’t white. I worry about the direction we’re heading. I don’t live in a constant state of panic, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety that didn’t exist before, and the heaviness is exhausting. It feels surreal, like we’re all watching some bizarre and horrifying movie that’s on every channel.

Ancient Wiring, Modern Responsibility

At the same time, I’ve finally started reading Sapiens, which is a humbling reminder that humans have always been tribal. We’ve always divided ourselves into groups; we’ve always struggled with difference. None of this started yesterday. We’re wired to seek safety, and sometimes that means clinging to the predictability of sameness.

When people feel unsafe (economically, socially, emotionally) they narrow their world. They look for something solid. Familiarity and control feel solid. Fear doesn’t always look like fear.

Sometimes it looks like anger. Sometimes it looks like superiority. Sometimes it looks like cruelty.

Reading about human evolution has been fascinating. Six million years ago, a single female ape had two daughters. One lineage became chimpanzees. The other became us.

One lineage split eventually became all of us. Every border, every ideology, every cultural divide sits on top of that shared origin. That makes our differences smaller in scale than we like to admit.

Homo sapiens have only been around for a few hundred thousand years. Agriculture is barely 12,000 years old. The Industrial Revolution is a blink. The internet is practically brand new. We’ve evolved technologically at a breathtaking pace.

Emotionally, we’re still carrying ancient wiring.

Fear helped our ancestors survive. Tribal instincts helped small groups protect each other. Quickly identifying who was “us” and who wasn’t made sense when survival depended on it.

But we’re not living in small nomadic tribes anymore. We understand projection. We have a language for bias, trauma, insecurity, and emotional regulation. We know how fear distorts perception. We know how contempt can grow out of feeling threatened.

So while fear may be wired into us, being ruled by it isn’t inevitable.

We have the capacity to pause and to question our assumptions. To notice when we’re reacting instead of responding. That capacity comes with responsibility.

We can acknowledge that fear is ancient without pretending it excuses cruelty. We can understand tribal wiring without accepting division is inevitable. At some point, instinct becomes a choice.

We are capable of reflection and empathy. When we choose contempt anyway, that’s denial.

Cruelty is efficient. It gives you a quick sense of power. You mock someone, and for a moment you don’t have to look at your own insecurity. You dismiss someone, and for a moment you feel superior.

Compassion doesn’t give you an adrenaline spike. It expands your perspective. It helps you see the human being in front of you instead of reducing them to a difference. It reminds you that identity is layered, and beneath it all, we share the same fragile wiring.

Alongside all the sharpness, I’ve found relief in seeing some people going out of their way to amplify love and compassion. People choosing empathy and offering comfort to anyone who needs it, reminding us that we’re not alone in this.

It’s strange that basic decency and kindness feel rebellious right now. When the temperature rises, choosing calm stands out. When cynicism becomes the default, sincerity feels disruptive.

I’ve seen people answer hostility by not engaging. There’s something powerful about refusing to mirror what’s being thrown at you.

Watching that episode of Queer Eye reminded me that compassion is powerful. It’s a regulated nervous system choosing not to project its fear onto someone else. It’s someone deciding that their pain will not become someone else’s burden.

I know how it feels to sit in the presence of healthy, steady compassion. I’ve felt it reciprocated in real friendships. I felt it watching five men look at a stranger and tell him he mattered. It feels like a breath of fresh air.

And I want more of that.

I don’t want to harden just because the world feels harsh. I want to contribute to the quieter current I see growing that’s built on accountability, steadiness, and kindness.

Sometimes change doesn’t look like a revolution. Sometimes it looks like someone choosing not to pass their pain along.

Sometimes it looks like telling a tired, insecure 57-year-old man that he’s beautiful and meaning it.

And sometimes it looks like you and me deciding that fear doesn’t get to run the room.

If It’s Possible, We’re Responsible

I can acknowledge that fear is ancient without excusing what it produces. I can understand why people cling to sameness without pretending division is harmless. We are intelligent enough to do better. We are emotionally capable of growth. Compassion isn’t some advanced spiritual achievement. It’s a choice available to all of us.

I refuse to shrink my capacity for curiosity and empathy.

The next evolution isn’t going to happen in our DNA. It’s going to happen in our decisions.

Maybe that’s the evolution that matters now. Not biological. Conscious. Choosing curiosity over contempt. Choosing peace over escalation. Choosing to see a person instead of a category.

For a few minutes last night, I let myself feel everything I’d been holding in. The sadness. The exhaustion. The persistent fear I didn’t want to name.

We’re not helpless creatures trapped by ancient instinct. We are self-aware. We are intelligent. We are capable of reflection. Fear may be wired into us, but so is empathy. So is cooperation. So is the ability to override impulse and choose something better.

We can keep defaulting to fear. We can keep shrinking our world down to only what feels familiar. Or we can practice being curious. We can expose ourselves to real people instead of categories. We can regulate ourselves before we react. We can choose not to pass our anxiety along.

I want to be part of the current that builds something braver. Something rooted in accountability and compassion.

Watching strangers sit across from each other for a week and walk away changed reminded me that growth is possible.

And if it’s possible, then we’re responsible.

That’s the hope I’m choosing.