When Passion Meets the Weight of the Work

I want to admit, I write this month's blog posting with a heavy heart. It has been a challenging week for many reasons; I'll share two: (1) our Transitional Youth Empowerment Program (TYEP) had to terminate participants this week and (2) the concerns of the stalling of SNAP doesn't just impact families, it HIGHLY impacts youth in and transitioning out of the foster care system. Going into the holiday

season, this weighs heavy.

Working in the nonprofit sector is often described as purpose-driven, fulfilling, even heart

work. And while those things are true, what often goes unspoken is the quiet, emotional toll it takes on those who care the most. When your work is directly tied to people’s pain, trauma, struggle, and/or survival, you begin to carry invisible weight. It’s the kind of heaviness that lingers long after the office lights are turned off — and sometimes, even long after you’ve moved on from the role itself.

Let's be clear, our lights never turn off and my phone never goes off.

Those of us who serve — in social services, housing, education, healthcare, or youth work — often enter this field because we care deeply. But that deep care can also become the very thing that drains us. We absorb stories, energy, and experiences that aren’t ours to carry, yet they find a home somewhere in our heart... our spirit, even. We tell ourselves and others, I’m fine. I’m just tired. But the truth is, many of us are quietly wrestling with the aftershocks of vicarious trauma — the emotional residue of constantly showing up for others in crisis.

Revisit with me the American Psychiatric Association definition of PTSD: “a psychiatric disorder that may occur in people who have experienced or witnessed a traumatic event, series of events, or set of circumstances.” I said it before and I'll say it again, I believe there is something missing here and, if you really thought about it, I think you would agree. I didn't witness or experience my aunt's passing and, yet, it lives with me; I didn't witness the trauma of participants in our TYEP but their stories live with me; their stories go with me into meetings; their goals narrate grant opportunities.

For some, this will be the first time you're "hearing" this — once upon a time, I was an academic advisor and transfer counselor at a community college. As a part of my role, I took students to visit and experience four-year institutions - the, possible, next step to their educational journey. One visit took me to Western MA; I took a male and female student. On the way out I got to learn about their journeys, who they were, why this trip was important to them; there were laughs and good conversation. However, on the way back, the trip was rather different. The young woman who was known to the institution (not me as a new advisor) as someone with a mental health condition had, what they defined later as, "an episode". Multiple calls to my supervisor went unanswered. Eventually, I pulled over and called for an ambulance - not police, an ambulance, so she could receive support. Eventually, I had to sit in front of a board of people and re-live that moment that would ultimately decide if she was able to continue her education or not - the moment, experience, and realization that shaped my early, professional, understanding of trauma, empathy, and the unseen emotional cost of caring for others. I still think about this young woman because after I transitioned out of my role I heard of another incident that took place at her residence in which the police responded.

This week resurfaced that.

I often reflect on how compassion itself can be both a gift and a burden. When you truly care — when you really see people — their pain becomes part of your emotional landscape. The work doesn’t end when the grant report is submitted, when the meeting adjourns, or when the client signs the paperwork. It lingers in the silence that follows. It lingers as you prepare to make the next decision of program acceptance and termination. It lingers in the halls as you wonder what came of them or what could have come of them.

There’s a profound loneliness that sometimes comes with nonprofit work — the expectation to keep giving, to stay inspired, to be a beacon of hope, even when your own light flickers. And yet, we stay. We stay because the mission feels bigger than the pain. Because, somehow, helping others find their way helps us remember ours.

If I had to tie this back to the important work of nonprofits, Meryl’s Safe Haven, and what is happening now in this world around us, as I did before, I would remind every CEO/ED, staff member, board member, donor, funder, and volunteer that your connection makes you a part of the story — and the existence — of the people and causes you serve but also come in contact with. MSH would be and do so many things to respond to the needs of our community if I didn't understand the importance of mission driven work because I take each story with me and if you work in the sector, you're likely the same way.

To those who serve with their whole hearts: be gentle with yourselves. Your empathy is sacred, your compassion is your calling, and your feelings — even the heavy ones — are valid. Sometimes, just surviving the weight of caring is its own act of courage.

Allow Me To Carry Something