Three hours of rhythmic kicks to my airplane seat became an unexpected meditation on empathy. On a recent Mexico City to Austin flight, a child behind me turned my seat into a drum, while the parents seemed oblivious. With each thud, judgment rose inside me like a wave.

I shot glances backward, crafting silent accusations. How could they let this continue? What kind of parents ignore their child's disruption? My frustration built with every kick, until a strange thought surfaced: If I were them—exactly them, with their entire life history, their precise neural wiring, their current state of mind—I would do exactly what they were doing.