True crime stories allow for a lack of resolution that police procedurals do not. Many true crime shows deal with unsolved cases or missing people who seemed to disappear in thin air, and even shows that take on solved cases often provide little in the way of definitive answers. Those of us who have experienced violence and find refuge in true crime are looking not for closure but for empathy, for understanding, for a world that doesn’t turn its back on the fact that day-to-day violence exists, and that it is less freakish than banal.

For me, true crime podcasts especially provide that. I’ve probably listened to every true crime podcast available at least once; there are a lot of them these days. I regularly listen to the well-researched and thoughtful “Casefile,” and smaller but no less worthwhile ventures with their own distinct perspectives, like “In Sight,” “misconduct.,” “Court Junkie,” “True Crime Fan Club” and “Canadian True Crime.” (I also appreciate podcasts that focus on the lives of those behind bars, like “Ear Hustle,” and those that focus on exonerees, like “Wrongful Conviction With Jason Flom.”)

But the wildly popular podcast “My Favorite Murder” is one of my favorites. “My Favorite Murder” and its attendant online community capture survivors’ curiosity and the therapeutic nature of talking about the most awful things we humans can do to one another. With droll, dark humor, the TV host Georgia Hardstark and the comedian Karen Kilgariff, who are candid about their own difficult experiences, share local stories of murder and other violent acts from around the world, many provided by their listeners. Though the show can ramble and go off-topic frequently, that’s part of its charm. Its appeal is less about the details of the stories themselves than about Ms. Hardstark’s and Ms. Kilgariff’s friendship and their processing of their own fascinations with true crime. We learn more about them than about the average true crime hosts. We know about their pets, a therapist they’ve seen together as work partners and friends, their emotional responses to cases rather than just their intellectual analysis.

Ms. Hardstark’s and Ms. Kilgariff’s warmth and humanity are evident in every episode. They’re thrilled when fans send them even the smallest handmade tokens, and they frequently own up to their own mistakes. (There is even a rather self-effacing “Corrections Corner.”) Fans have responded in kind; there are an endless number of “My Favorite Murder” fan groups on Facebook, including a book group, a group for fans with pets, a group for fans who work in child protection and child welfare and a group for those who have had close encounters with violence.

While “My Favorite Murder” is always a welcome presence in my feed, I’ll quickly hit the unsubscribe button when a podcast strikes me as callous. Sometimes I get the sense that the host has taken on true crime because it’s having a cultural moment, and his or her ego takes center stage. Some hosts view themselves as clearly separate from their subjects, rather than recognizing what they share. I recently said goodbye to the podcast “Sword and Scale” for this reason. In telling the story of a murder-suicide, Mike Boudet, the host of the show, frequently misgendered not just the killer but also an online friend of hers who had no involvement with the crime discussed. In an uncomfortable interview, Mr. Boudet repeatedly badgered this friend, a young trans woman who is autistic. His disrespect for this woman was unkind and unethical.