Why Do Some People Hate Me?

Some questions do not leave us when childhood ends. They settle somewhere deep within us and quietly shape the way we see people, the way we respond to hurt, and the things we choose to stand for in life.

In this solo conversation on Chocolate and Coffee Break, Andrea shared a story from her childhood about a handmade flip-chart book her father created for Sunday school. He was not a writer or an illustrator. He simply had something important he wanted children to understand.

The story repeated the same question over and over: Why do some people hate me?

The little girl in the story loved ordinary things. Riding her bike. Singing songs. Going to parties. Yet after each joyful statement came the same painful question. Then came the final page. No words at all. Just the image of a little Aboriginal girl.

It is hard not to feel the weight of that moment, even now.

Not because the story offers simple answers. It doesn’t. In many ways, that question still sits beneath so much human pain and division today.

Children still ask it, even if the words are different. Why am I treated differently? Why do people fear me? Why don’t I belong? Why am I not safe to simply be who I am?

The details change across cultures, religions, communities, and generations, but the ache underneath remains painfully familiar.

Fear Creates Distance. Presence Closes It.

One of the strongest things about this conversation is that it never turns compassion into something abstract or performative. It stays grounded in real moments and real people.

Andrea reflected on the aftermath of the Sydney café siege and the fear many Muslim Australians experienced afterwards. Families removed religious clothing. Some people stayed home because they feared retaliation. The country collectively held its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

What followed instead was an outpouring of public compassion through the phrase I Will Ride With You. Strangers offered to sit beside Muslim passengers on public transport so they would not feel alone or unsafe.

There is something deeply human about that response.

Nobody solved racism overnight. Nobody erased prejudice. But people chose presence over silence. They chose connection over suspicion. They chose to say, in a practical and visible way, you belong here too.

That tension runs quietly through the entire episode. Fear pulls people apart. Presence draws them back together again.

Perhaps that is why this conversation resonates so deeply. It refuses to reduce people to labels or headlines. Instead, it keeps returning to ordinary humanity and the fragile need every person has to feel safe, respected, and seen.

The Empty Seat Beside Someone

Later in the episode, Andrea spoke about her work as a volunteer community chaplain during emergencies and disasters. She described entering relief centres after bushfires and noticing people sitting alone beside empty chairs.

So she would sit down.

Not with a solution. Not with advice. Not to rescue people from grief or fear. Just to listen.

That may have been the most powerful part of the conversation because it revealed something many people quietly long for: to feel seen without needing to perform strength first.

We often underestimate how much loneliness exists around us because loneliness does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like someone standing slightly apart from the group. Sometimes it looks like a person functioning perfectly well while quietly struggling underneath.

The episode continually returns to the dignity of listening. Not listening so we can reply. Not listening so we can prove something. Just listening so another person knows they matter.

There is a profound difference between being around people and feeling genuinely received by them.

Where the Conversation Becomes Uncomfortable

The uncomfortable truth beneath this episode is that many people feel unseen long before they feel openly rejected.

Most prejudice does not begin with violence. It begins with distance. With disinterest. With choosing not to understand someone because their story feels unfamiliar to us.

It is easier to stay inside our own circles. Easier to avoid difficult conversations. Easier to pull away from people who challenge our assumptions or make us uncomfortable.

Yet the episode quietly asks what happens when we keep doing that.

What kind of world do we create when fear becomes louder than curiosity? What happens when children begin learning words like racism or anti-Semitism before they are old enough to understand why someone would hate them?

There is no neat resolution offered here because there isn’t one. Human beings are capable of both extraordinary compassion and terrible cruelty. The conversation never denies that tension.

But it does insist on something important. We still have choices about the kind of presence we bring into the world.

Brew the Change

This week’s Brew the Change challenge comes directly from the heart of the conversation:

Look for the empty seat and sit down and talk with somebody.

It sounds simple, but perhaps simplicity is part of its power.

Not everyone will want to talk. Not every conversation will become meaningful. But there are people carrying heavy things quietly, and sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person is the experience of being genuinely listened to.

Not analysed. Not corrected. Not rushed. Just heard.

The challenge matters because belonging is built in moments. Human connection grows through ordinary interactions that tell people they are not invisible.

A conversation over coffee. A quiet question. An empty seat that no longer stays empty.

These things may seem small, but small moments often shape us more deeply than we realise.

The Story We Choose to Tell

Perhaps that is what this episode ultimately leaves sitting with us.

Not the question of whether division exists. We already know it does.

The deeper question is what kind of people we become in response to it.

Do we move further away from each other, or do we choose to stay present long enough to listen? Do we allow fear to define strangers before conversation has a chance to begin? Or do we keep making room at the table, even when the world feels fractured and tired?

There may never be a final answer to the question, Why do some people hate me?

But there is still another question quietly sitting beside it.

What happens when someone chooses to stay?