When Work Hits Home: Identifying with the Client
“If you feel pain, you are alive. If you feel other people’s pain, you are a human being.” – Leo Tolstoy
There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately that feels heavy, and I imagine I’m not the only one. As social workers (or future social workers), we’re trained to hold space for other people’s pain, but sometimes, we forget to mention how deeply jarring it can be when clients’ stories mirror your own. Alternatively, it can also look like when the issues you’re helping them navigate are the same ones you’re facing in your own life. I’m not yet a professional social worker. I’m still getting things together—learning policies, ethics, frameworks. Nevertheless, what no textbook can prepare me for is the emotional whiplash of holding someone’s trauma in one hand while your own sits unresolved in the other.
For me, that trauma is heightened due to the recent issues in the United States deeply tied to immigration and xenophobia. I work with immigrant clients, nearly all of whom are Latinx. I tell myself that their stories of fear, displacement, separation, racism, xenophobia, and survival should not feel this personal—and yet, they do. As a Latina woman, I don’t just listen to their stories; I feel them as if I have lived them. I see my family. I see my friends. I see myself. And in recent months, with the increase in deportations and the intensifying dehumanizing narrative in the name of “border security,” these conversations feel like they’re personal attacks.
There are days I leave work and go home just to talk about the same topics again with my mother and father over dinner—except this time, it’s not with a client. It’s personal. My loved ones are scared. My loved ones are suffering. And when I walk into work the next day, I find myself needing time before opening the door to meet with clients who are holding that same fear.
I’ve been taught about countertransference—how our personal history can sneak into the therapeutic space. And I know transference is a thing, too—how clients can project onto us, often without realizing it. But I’m not sure what to call it when it goes both ways. When a client reminds you of someone you love or of a story you just swear is taken straight from your life. When you find yourself fighting away sadness because you’re not just empathizing with the other person—you’re reliving. What do you do when a client’s story activates something in you that hasn’t healed yet?
I find myself questioning: Am I being “too much” if I feel so strongly? Am I fit for social work if I sometimes leave work rattled? I’ve even caught myself feeling shame—like I’m doing something wrong by being emotional. But the truth is, I’m human. And social work never asked me to be anything else. It only asked me to be aware of my reactions and to care enough to explore them.
I still think the line is blurry. When the world feels unsafe for people like me—and I don’t just mean the “people I serve”—where does the work end, and where do I begin? I’m starting to realize that the answer isn’t to draw a clear boundary between “self” and “social worker,” but rather to practice an ongoing self-attunement.
What I mean is this: I’ve been trying to notice when that barbed wire feeling in my throat occurs during sessions. When my shoulders rise. When my voice falters. I’m learning to name it. “I feel overwhelmed,” I might think. Or “This reminds me of people I love.” I don’t say it out loud during work, but acknowledging it to myself helps me stay grounded.
And outside of work? That’s the other half of social work—how do I care for myself when my community is hurting? When my people are hurting? To be transparent, I don’t have a complete answer. I’m still figuring it out. But here are a few things I’ve been practicing:
Unplugging from the news when it’s too much. I want to stay informed. I am committed to staying informed. But doomscrolling myself into panic or numbness doesn’t help anyone—not my clients, not my family, not me.
Letting myself feel without judgment. I’m allowed to grieve. To be angry. To be scared. I don’t need to be emotionless to help others. I need to be honest, and that starts with myself first.
Reaching out to social work students/professionals who get it. Sometimes, just hearing “me too” or “I feel similarly” from someone else in the field reminds me they’re human—as am I.
Making space for joy. This might sound strange in a blog about personal issues and emotional overload. However, being joyful is resistance and allows us to fight against injustice with a clearer mind.
Seeking supervision when something sticks. A major lesson I learned is that not everything needs to be processed alone. Sometimes, supervision isn’t just about learning how to “handle” clients—it’s also about mutual support and comradery.
I need to re-emphasize that there are no easy answers here. I’m not writing this blog as a “5 Steps to Save Yourself from Client Pain” checklist. I’m writing because maybe you’ve felt this too—especially if you share an identity, a background, or a trauma with the people you serve.
Maybe you’re also wondering how to separate your work from your life when the issues aren’t just concepts—they’re personal, persistent, and painful.
Maybe you’re also holding it all, the way so many of us do—quietly because it feels too complicated to explain. Or because you feel ashamed you’re struggling when you’re “supposed” to help people when they’re struggling.
Here’s what I’m starting to believe:
This work will keep asking us to show up—with our hearts, our stories, our boundaries, and our breath. But we are not machines. We are not containers for other people’s pain. We can’t just swallow the pain and completely dissolve it. We are human. And that humanness? It’s a gift.
So if you, like me, feel you’re in the thick of it right now—if you’re holding a pain that doesn’t just belong to your clients but to your family, your community, your own childhood—know that you are seen. I’m with you.