Echoes of Appalachia

Across social media, a Kentucky woman’s voice has ignited one of the most emotional debates of the year. Her phone calls to churches across the United States have placed faith, compassion, and poverty under the same spotlight. The woman, named Nikalie Monroe, began posting videos on TikTok in which she poses as a mother who cannot afford baby formula for her two-month-old child. Her request is simple and desperate: “My baby has not eaten.”

The responses she records vary widely. Some churches offer to help and even promise to bring supplies. Others decline, give phone numbers for other organizations, or refer her to lengthy forms that require waiting for approval. The videos have traveled across platforms and reached millions of viewers. Each call raises a single question about how willing churches are to provide immediate help when someone pleads for it.

Monroe began her project from her home in Kentucky, a state deeply tied to the Appalachian region. Her series now includes dozens of calls to churches in small mountain towns, coal country communities, and larger southern cities. She introduces herself as a struggling mother who cannot afford baby formula and asks if the church can help. Each video follows the same rhythm. The phone rings. A pastor, secretary, or volunteer answers. Monroe explains her story with a trembling voice. Listeners hear a moment of silence, then a decision. Some voices show concern and ask for an address to deliver help. Others sound apologetic while explaining that assistance programs require applications or scheduled interviews.

In more than forty documented calls, Monroe has said that only about ten offered to help immediately. Those few positive responses often came from small, local congregations with limited resources. Larger churches, including well-known ones, tended to require paperwork or verification. Millions of people have watched these clips and drawn their own conclusions. Some applaud Monroe for holding faith institutions accountable. Others believe she is unfairly testing organizations that already face financial strain. Regardless of opinion, the project has opened a powerful discussion about faith in action and the meaning of charity in modern America.

For generations, churches across Appalachia have served as the heartbeat of community life. In small towns stretching through Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee, and Virginia, the church is often the center of both faith and survival. Families gather there for food drives, clothing donations, and emotional support. When jobs vanish or medical bills pile up, the church becomes a place of refuge. The region’s deep history of poverty shapes its relationship with faith. Many communities face limited access to grocery stores, healthcare, and transportation. Formula shortages, high food prices, and unemployment still affect daily life. Monroe’s experiment touches a nerve because it portrays a reality that many Appalachian families recognize. A mother in need can easily fall through the cracks. Her calls reveal how compassion sometimes meets barriers created by rules, policies, and lack of flexibility. Churches may wish to help yet become entangled in systems designed for structure rather than speed. In an emergency, delay can feel like refusal. For a hungry child, delay can mean suffering.

The videos highlight a larger question for religious organizations about their mission when someone calls for help in real time. Monroe’s experiment shows two very different types of responses. Some churches prioritize immediacy and treat each call as a human emergency. Others emphasize procedure, seeking documentation before offering aid. Both approaches have purpose, yet the public reaction favors the first. Viewers respond emotionally to kindness that moves quickly. In one call that gained significant attention, a small Appalachian church immediately promised to find baby formula that same day. The pastor’s voice carried warmth and conviction as he said, “We will figure something out.” That moment became a symbol of hope within the series. By contrast, some large churches required Monroe to submit online forms or wait for scheduled assistance. Viewers criticized those responses as cold or disconnected. The difference between the two types of replies became a powerful reflection of the gap between spiritual values and institutional practices.

Monroe’s project resonates for several reasons. It connects to national conversations about poverty, parenting, and responsibility. Her fictional scenario mirrors real situations faced by countless parents who struggle to feed their children. The simplicity of her videos also contributes to their impact. Each call unfolds without dramatic editing or background music. There is only a phone line, a human voice, and a decision. The raw honesty of those moments forces viewers to confront their own sense of compassion. Many commenters express frustration, saying that faith should translate into action. Others note that large churches often have the financial means to help immediately. The videos have become both a critique of religious institutions and a call for renewed empathy.

The attention surrounding Monroe’s videos has prompted several churches to issue statements. Some pastors explained that they follow structured procedures to prevent fraud and to distribute aid fairly. They say such systems protect the congregation’s resources and ensure that real families in need receive sustainable help. Other leaders have admitted that the videos served as a wake-up call. They expressed gratitude for the reminder that compassion should move faster than paperwork. One Kentucky pastor said the experience inspired his church to create a small emergency fund to handle immediate needs without delay. Larger institutions have highlighted their extensive charitable programs, which often operate through food banks and community partnerships. They emphasize that while they may appear unhelpful in individual calls, they serve thousands through organized outreach every year. Still, Monroe’s project suggests that many viewers expect direct, human responses rather than institutional explanations. The emotional weight of hearing a mother plead for help often outweighs the logic of administrative policy.

The broader message emerging from Monroe’s experiment centers on the meaning of compassion. Real compassion involves action without hesitation. When someone calls in distress, kindness begins with listening and responding. Appalachian communities have long embodied that spirit. Families share resources, repair each other’s homes, and check on neighbors during harsh winters. Churches once formed the backbone of that generosity. Monroe’s work challenges congregations to reconnect with that tradition. Her project also sheds light on how modern life has changed the way institutions operate. As society becomes more digital, communication between people and organizations grows less personal. Many churches now handle assistance through email or websites rather than direct conversation. Monroe’s calls remind audiences that sometimes empathy requires a human voice more than an online form.

TikTok has turned Monroe’s experiment into a movement. The platform allows her to reach millions of people instantly, creating public dialogue around charity and authenticity. Her videos transform private interactions into collective lessons about humanity. Each clip reveals how an individual or institution reacts when confronted with real or imagined need. That exposure has encouraged others to perform similar tests, calling local churches and charities to see how they respond. The trend reflects a growing desire for transparency among organizations that claim to serve the vulnerable. Social media often fuels controversy, yet it can also spark positive change. In this case, Monroe’s viral reach has inspired donations, volunteer efforts, and discussions about reforming aid systems within faith-based groups.

The focus on Appalachian churches gives this story particular depth. The region carries both a reputation for hardship and a legacy of strong faith. Monroe’s calls highlight the tension between those two forces. Some communities respond with immediate compassion, proving that generosity thrives even in areas with limited resources. Others struggle with structure, revealing how bureaucracy can overshadow the spirit of service. For many Appalachians, the series has become personal. Residents see in those calls a reflection of their own communities and values. They are reminded that the strength of faith lies not in the size of a building or the reach of a budget, but in the willingness to act with love when someone needs help. Faith leaders across the region are using the moment to review their own systems and renew their commitment to service. Some have begun creating rapid response plans to provide emergency aid before any formal review process begins.

Monroe’s goal has always been awareness rather than humiliation. She hopes her videos encourage churches and individuals alike to recognize how often people in crisis encounter barriers instead of compassion. Her experiment mirrors the experiences of many parents who face hunger, eviction, or loss with limited support. Since the series gained popularity, viewers have organized donation drives for baby formula and food. Others have joined local outreach programs or given to shelters in their towns. The viral attention has turned empathy into tangible action. Monroe has expressed gratitude for the positive outcomes, saying she wants to remind people that caring for others should never depend on paperwork or status. Her work has become a bridge between online activism and real community service.

At its core, the story of Monroe’s experiment is about rediscovering compassion in daily life. In many Appalachian towns, an old saying carries deep meaning: “When a neighbor knocks, you open the door.” Her series challenges churches and individuals to live by that principle once again. Compassion begins with listening, continues with belief, and ends with action. Procedure and policy have value, yet the human heart should lead the way. Appalachia’s history of faith and resilience shows that communities thrive when people respond to need with generosity rather than caution. Monroe’s work serves as a reminder that the truest form of religion lives through action. Across Kentucky, West Virginia, and beyond, her phone calls echo a single lesson that reaches far beyond TikTok. Faith is measured through kindness, and kindness begins with the courage to answer when someone calls for help.

-Tim Carmichael