by Alma Calderón | Jul 15, 2026 | Recent Posts
“Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals.” – Brené Brown
There’s a saying in social work that is so common and maybe you’ve heard it too—maybe even more than once:
“You have to disconnect when you leave work. That’s the only way you’ll survive in this field.”
I’ve heard this from professors, from supervisors, from other social workers who’ve been doing this for decades. And I get it. I really do. The message behind it is important: If you carry everyone else’s pain home with you, you will destroy yourself. You need boundaries. You need space to breathe. You need to protect your own mental health.
But still – every time I hear the word “disconnect,” it lands wrong. It feels cold. Mechanical. Almost like it’s asking me to shut off a part of myself. And honestly, that’s never been who I am. I feel things. Deeply. Even before I chose this profession, I was always someone who absorbed other people’s energy. Who felt anxious when a loved one was anxious. Who cried when someone else cried – even if I didn’t fully understand what was wrong.
Now, as a social worker in training, that trait is both a strength and a challenge. It allows me to be present, to listen closely, to offer genuine empathy. But it also means that after a long day of hearing hard things – stories of trauma, grief, violence, injustice – I sometimes carry those stories home with me, like invisible weights I can’t shake off.
And that’s the part people warn you about. That’s what they mean when they say disconnect. But here’s where I struggle: I don’t want to become someone who can just listen to someone else’s pain and then shrug it off by the time I reach my front door. I don’t want to be numb. I don’t want to lose the part of me that feels. Because that’s the part of me that led me here in the first place.
Still, I understand the fear behind not drawing that line. This work can get to you. It can make the world feel like a dark place, especially when you’re exposed to so many of its cracks. There have been days where I’ve walked out of a session or a group and thought: How does anyone keep going? How do people survive so much pain? And how do I hold it without letting it harden me?
Because that’s the other piece of this – when you hear so many stories of injustice, of cruelty, of systems failing again and again, it gets easy to spiral into hopelessness. You start to feel like maybe things don’t change. That maybe the world is just broken. That maybe we’re just putting Band-Aids on bullet wounds.
That’s when I know I need to check in with myself.
What I’ve come to realize is that “disconnecting” doesn’t necessarily mean not caring. It doesn’t have to mean switching off your empathy like a light switch when you get home. Maybe what people actually mean is re-centering. Grounding. Coming back to yourself after you’ve spent the day holding space for others.
It’s the difference between saying, “I’m not going to feel this,” versus saying, “I am feeling this, but I’m going to tend to it.”
Because yes, this work can break your heart. But it can also teach you about resilience in ways that nothing else does. I’ve seen clients who have been through unthinkable things and still show up, still try, still hope. That’s what keeps me going. That’s what reminds me that even in the darkest moments, people still find light.
But we can’t hold their pain and our own without tending to ourselves in real, deliberate ways. That’s where the idea of integration comes in – not disconnecting, but creating a ritual of return. For me, that might mean journaling after a hard day. Or talking to someone I trust – not about the details of the session, but about the feeling it left me with. Sometimes it means lighting a candle and sitting with my thoughts in silence. Sometimes it means blasting music and dancing around like a maniac just to shake the heaviness out of my body.
And sometimes, if I’m honest, it means crying. That’s okay too.
We are not therapists, counselors, advocates, or caseworkers in a vacuum. We’re people. And while we’re trained to understand transference and countertransference, and how our own history shapes our reactions, the reality is that this job is deeply relational. We are affected because we connect. That’s the whole point.
In my last blog post – When Work Hits Home: Identifying with the Client – I wrote about what happens when your clients’ experiences hit too close to your own. I shared how difficult it’s been to work with immigrant families as a Latina woman while deportations in the U.S. continue to rise, and how that work doesn’t just stay in the office – it walks home with me. It lives in the same room as my personal fears and my reality.
What I didn’t say then, but what I’ll say now, is this: I don’t think we’re meant to carry it all alone. We need supervision, yes. But we also need community. We need spaces where we can say “I’m not okay” and not be seen as weak. We need to normalize the fact that sitting with someone else’s trauma changes you. That sometimes it opens your heart, and sometimes it wrecks you a little. That both are true.
What I’m really trying to avoid is becoming someone who stops feeling. I don’t want to lose my softness. I don’t want to get so good at creating emotional distance that I forget what it means to actually care – really, fully care.
Maybe the real question isn’t really “How do I disconnect?” but rather “How do I stay connected without feeling overwhelmed?” How can I keep my heart open while still protecting it from getting hurt every time I come across something painful?
I won’t act like I have all the answers figured out; I’m still on this journey. But here’s what I’ve come to understand:
I don’t want to shut myself off just to fit into a “professional” mold.
I don’t want to become numb or cynical.
I don’t want to lose faith in hope – or in people.
What I truly want is to keep showing up with compassion, to set strong boundaries, and to allow space for grace – for others and for myself.I want to stay emotionally present without burning myself out. And I want to keep reminding myself (and others) that this work is tough, and it’s okay to admit that.
So no, I’m not going to disconnect. Not in the way people mean. But I am going to care for the parts of me that get tired. I’m going to keep finding ways to come back to myself after the storm. And I’m going to keep believing that staying tender in a world like this is one of the bravest things we can do.
Amy’s response to “How Do You Care Without Carrying It All”
I’m not sure that anyone wants us/you to disconnect completely as in not feeling with the client; not empathizing, being “cold” or not caring. Yes, we are human! And we need to allow ourselves more room to be so, even when with our clients. It’s ok to cry with our clients (as long as you’re still in control of your emotions). It’s ok to get frustrated. It’s ok to use yourself to help others mend and that may look different from client to client. It’s also ok to let it go after you meet with the client. That doesn’t mean you don’t care. And that becomes easier in time, and with more experience.
We also have to self-protect as a form of self-preservation and subsequently in the service to others. I often feel like we become so conditioned to hardship that we don’t react anymore. For example, it seems if you watch local news all you hear about is the baby who fell out of the apartment window; the family who lost their home to a fire; the boy who accidentally shot his brother. And we gasp in horror for a moment and carry on as usual, maybe even starting to prepare dinner. Are we cold? Are we not caring? We are self-protective. This applies to world news as well – there are really horrific devastating global crises. We’re seeing raw footage of war, climate disasters, and injustices… daily. And yet, we must go on. Some of us refuse to watch the news; others watch it and get depressed; and others feel, learn and act because of it. It’s human nature. We all have different mechanisms to self-protect.
I do believe in building community. I do believe in finding support. I don’t believe it’s weak to show your feelings – it’s actually quite strong. I don’t think we should equate disconnection with not caring and I believe there is a roomy spectrum between not caring and not always feeling. What we learn in this field is to be present. In the moment. And then store the feelings away so you can live your life. We aren’t in the business of sacrificing ourselves for the good of others, though it can certainly feel that way at the beginning!
by Maria Sosa | Jul 7, 2026 | Recent Posts
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” – Anaïs Nin
No one really talks about how growing into yourself can feel like loss. Not the kind that knocks you over suddenly, but the kind that happens slowly, like realizing a favorite piece of clothing you once loved no longer fits the same way. Nothing dramatic happens. You just start noticing the discomfort.
That’s how it has felt for me lately.
I keep finding myself in moments that should feel familiar. Conversations with friends. Text threads. Group dynamics I’ve been part of for years. And yet, something feels different. Not wrong, exactly. Just different. Quieter. A little heavier.
Sometimes I find myself sitting in conversations where I know I should feel completely comfortable, but instead I feel like I’m observing from the outside. Like my life has started moving in a new direction, but a part of me is still trying to hold onto the rhythm I used to know.
It’s disorienting. And honestly, it’s lonelier than I expected.
The strange thing about this kind of change is that it happens quietly.
It’s not the kind of thing you announce. There’s no big moment where you realize, “I’ve changed.” There’s no celebration or obvious milestone. It happens in small moments.
A text you don’t feel like answering right away.
A pause before saying yes.
Realizing you don’t have the same energy for things you used to force yourself through.
Noticing the ways you’ve changed before anyone else has.
And the hardest part is that most people don’t notice.
To everyone else, you’re still the same person. You still show up. You still laugh. You still do the things you’ve always done.
But internally, something is shifting.
I don’t always know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like I’m letting go of parts of myself, but I’m not always sure what I’m becoming in their place. Maybe that’s the hardest part. Sitting in the uncertainty.
There is a specific kind of sadness that comes with outgrowing what once felt like home.
As I continue moving toward becoming a therapist, I’ve realized this work changes you in ways I didn’t expect. You start looking at yourself differently. You start noticing patterns you once ignored. You begin understanding why you react the way you do, why certain things hurt, and why some relationships feel different than they used to.
You start noticing the ways you’ve tried to be everything for everyone. The times you ignored your own needs. The moments you stayed quiet to avoid conflict.
And once you see those things, it becomes difficult to pretend you don’t.
That can be uncomfortable.
Because sometimes you don’t have the words for what’s happening. You just know that something that once felt right no longer does.
You know it in the small moments.
A conversation leaves you feeling drained.
A place you used to enjoy no longer feels the same.
A relationship that once felt easy now feels like work.
For a long time, I ignored those feelings. I told myself I was overthinking. I told myself I should just be grateful. I tried to convince myself that nothing needed to change.
But I’m learning that sometimes discomfort is trying to tell you something.
Some people won’t meet you where you’re going.
This part has been harder than I expected.
There are people I love deeply. People who have seen me through difficult seasons. People who have felt like home.
And yet, I can feel some relationships changing.
Not because anyone did something wrong. Not because anyone is a bad person. Sometimes people simply grow in different directions.
When you stop being the version of yourself that others are used to, relationships can change too.
Sometimes it happens slowly.
Fewer conversations.
Less connection.
Feeling like you have to explain yourself more than you used to.
You become quieter, and no one asks why.
You say no, and someone takes it personally.
You start being more honest, and someone mistakes it for distance.
I wish I could say I’ve handled all of this perfectly, but I haven’t.
I’ve grieved some of these changes quietly. I’ve questioned myself. I’ve wanted to reach out and apologize just to make things feel normal again.
But I’m learning something important.
It is not my responsibility to make myself smaller so other people can stay comfortable.
And I’m finally learning not to confuse shrinking with loyalty.
There’s no blueprint for becoming.
No one really prepares you for this part.
The books can teach you. Classes can teach you. Experience can teach you.
But no one tells you what it feels like to change while still living your everyday life.
Most of it happens in ordinary moments. Driving home. Sitting alone after a long day. Thinking about conversations you had and wondering why they stayed with you.
I’ve stopped looking for perfect answers and started paying attention to what feels honest.
That conversation didn’t feel good.
That yes wasn’t what I really wanted.
That silence was me protecting myself.
That boundary was necessary, even if someone else didn’t understand it.
I’m learning to trust those moments.
Not because I have everything figured out, but because I’m tired of ignoring myself just to be easier for other people to accept.
Some days, I miss the old version of me.
And I still wouldn’t go back.
The version of me who tried so hard to be everything for everyone. The version who wanted to be helpful, impressive, productive, and easy to love. The version who said yes because saying no felt too uncomfortable.
She got me here.
She protected me.
She did the best she could with what she knew.
But I’m not her anymore.
I’m learning to accept the person I am becoming. The person who needs rest. The person who moves slower. The person who admits when she doesn’t know. The person who still cries in the car sometimes after a long day, but is also more honest with herself than she has ever been.
I don’t think I’m trying to become someone new.
I think I’m learning how to stop abandoning the person I already am.
If you’re in a season like this too, I hope you know you’re not alone.
You don’t have to rush through it.
You don’t have to have the perfect explanation.
You don’t have to understand every part of yourself before you accept where you are.
Maybe you’re outgrowing relationships that once felt like safety.
Maybe you’re noticing the ways you used to ignore your own needs.
Maybe you’re learning to say no without feeling guilty.
Maybe you’re just tired of pretending something still fits when it doesn’t.
Whatever it is, you are not broken.
You are growing.
And sometimes growth does not look like becoming someone completely new.
Sometimes it looks like finally becoming honest about who you have always been.
That kind of change is not weakness.
It is courage.
Amy’s response to “When the Ground Shifts Quietly”
It’s a powerful realization to consider that growth may include mourning: mourning who you were and all that came with her. The familiarity of that person is hard to abandon, even if you didn’t like her so much. It’s the only you that you knew. So it’s a loss. Maria captured beautifully and honestly her current experience with loss which is fueled by emotional growth. It requires shifting the familiar, and that is hard!
Being a few decades older that Maria, I can attest to the shifts in personal growth that happen in your 20’s; at the beginning of one’s career (and certainly heightened by the profession of social work); and throughout our lives. I went through it again recently and not briefly, as I reassessed my needs and my current relationships: no longer wanting to oblige others as a perfunctory and routine way of life that controlled my pleasure and displeasure – and wanting to be more self-accepting about my decisions that serve me rather than others. Prior to this, like Maria, the people pleasing self, the self-doubt, self-blame, self-dislike rose in all its unwelcome glory from all I was learning in my graduate education and all of the self-reflection, self-criticism and self-diagnosing that comes along with it. But what I saw in myself, what was unleashed with my new knowledge and depth of reflection was not entirely new; graduate school just brought it to the surface. And yet oddly at the same time I loved what I was doing. I knew that I had to suffer through several years of living in these feelings to grow emotionally, and to be a better therapist. I recognized that I was investing in myself. I thrived on the insight that was emerging along with my understanding of family dynamics and who I was. I loved figuring out other people’s dynamics. And I knew I was “home” (in the figurative sense). I committed to seeing this through despite the depression that was looming because I had found my path. However, literally, home was not a pleasant place for me. So there was a certain level of comfort in the pain. The self-dislike, imposter syndrome, loss of who I was, were unpleasantly familiar; familiarity made it comfortable in all of its discomfort. But the shift allowed me to tolerate the discomfort. Accept the discomfort. Immerse myself in the discomfort. So that I could grow.
You may have to let go of the old (self and other) to move forward. You may have to find new friends. You may have to accept other people’s limitations and love them anyway. And you may have to learn to like yourself.
Maybe we do need to talk more about it. Maybe it needs to be brought up in classes. It takes the voice of one. It takes vulnerability. Writing a blog about your feelings and recognizing and articulating what you’re going through already puts you ahead of the game – and uses your power to validate and support others. You’re starting the conversation. And I can offer you this: all of the discomfort, the pain, the questioning, the doubt is completely and totally worth the slippery, upsetting, daunting, frustrating, glorious ride. Thirty years in, I’m a completely different person than when I started, self-loving, and damn good at what I do 🙂. Keep plugging along!
by Amy Meyers | Apr 28, 2026 | Recent Posts
“The hours we spend with ourselves are the foundation of every true friendship; solitude is not absence, but preparation.” – May Sarton
We are living in a culture of loneliness. In fact, it is now referred to as the epidemic of loneliness experienced by approximately 80% of Americans. The number is staggering. Apparently, this began in the 2010’s and was certainly exacerbated by the isolation created by COVID-19. Even our Surgeon General has warned that loneliness can affect physical, mental and societal health. Gen Z is considered the loneliest of generations due to an increased reliance on social media. I deplore social media in some respects due to its propensity for competition for a better life, the proclivity for dis/misinformation, online bullying, and the breeding of an inability to communicate and connect. But that’s probably another blog. However, the response to loneliness seems to be an immersion in social media which ironically creates a false sense of kinship while avoiding true connection or as an attempt to resolve the feeling of loneliness. Another result of the access to social media either creates or rectifies an inability to be alone with oneself. The ability to be with one’s own company proves challenging, whether it’s in a doctor’s waiting room, public transportation, having a meal (sometimes even when with another person) or being at home. Just pick up your phone.
I consider myself to have the freedom to be alone and range from enjoying it, soliciting it, embracing it, or on some days, tolerating it. How about you? Do you seek it out? Do you actively enjoy it or simply accept it? Does it make you depressed? Do you need to be active most of the time? Do you want to be engaged with others most of the time? Perhaps there is a difference as to when it feels like a choice vs. imposed (ie: no one is available). When the latter occurs, I work towards accepting it and leaning into it.
One-night last week I was pleasantly aware of just how much I was enjoying some alone time in a way I may not have experienced before. What created this, I wondered? I craved it. After an extremely busy, non-stop period of work and personal obligations which rendered me both exhausted and surrounded by people all the time, I decided to take the East River ferry in Manhattan during daylight and return from the seaport at nighttime with city lights abound. The breeze on the ferry was delightful. I took a walk along the river and found myself seated on a wooden lounge chair, next to a couple. Only they didn’t seem like a couple. The woman had on an engagement ring, though the vibe between them was undetectable; it could have been a first date, a deep friendship, a looming marriage – somehow I couldn’t capture it. I was having fun trying to figure it out. They were happy to engage in conversation with me when I lightheartedly asked them about the nature of their relationship. Bold? Perhaps. Intrusive? Maybe. But I tend to have a style that works, she said in defense. I pride myself on my ability as a therapist to read people well, but something was amiss. Was it me? Was it them? It turned out that they were good friends who were completing their final semester of their MBA. We engaged in conversation and after a short while, the man left to attend a social event. The woman and I talked easily for another two hours. She was half my age, but we had much in common: the same humor, an immediate comfort, and an ease with reflection and sharing personal thoughts with depth.
Was I truly alone that night? I took a one-hour ferry ride each way. I sat by myself for a short while before engaging. But perhaps the “moral” of the story is 1)Being confident about being alone makes the time more enjoyable; 2) Enjoying one’s own company is essential to meeting others (how can others like us if we don’t like ourselves? If we’re anxious or sad, what are we projecting to others? If your internal voice is not kind, start replacing your voice with the kinder voice of others; 3) Being confident unconsciously attracts others. We all know the idea that we get what we put out. If we choose to remain anonymous, we will remain alone (whether at that moment in time, or as a general state); 4) Being alone allows opportunity. If I were with someone I knew, would I have made the effort to engage with someone else; someone new?
What steps can you take to address loneliness?
- Know when you’re ready to “put yourself out there”
- Take a risk: reach out to someone you would like to spend time with but hasn’t called you.
- This takes accepting vulnerability.
- Say yes to invites even if you’re not in the mood.
- Limit social media use.
- Consider what you like about yourself; if you’re stuck, ask friends.
- Find an organization or group with whom you have a shared interest.
- Join a support group.
If you’re really feeling stuck, have difficulty mobilizing towards efforts that may shift your feelings, and potential situation, reach out to a mental health professional. Loneliness makes people feel that they are flawed; and there is a lot of shame attached to it. That’s social media; that’s our society. You are NOT inadequate. You’re not a failure. You’re not unlikeable. And you’re certainly not alone in your loneliness (remember loneliness is experienced by 80% of Americans!). If you feel alone in your feeling of loneliness, consider that others may just be very good at concealing it, maybe even overcompensating by posting on social media. Work on shifting your perception of yourself. Take charge. Be tender to yourself. And know that you deserve to feel better.
Maria’s Response to “On Loneliness”
Amy’s recent blog on loneliness brought up more for me than I expected. Not in a dramatic way — more like a quiet recognition. A familiar tension I’ve been carrying lately without fully naming: the push and pull between craving connection and wanting to be alone.
For weeks now, I’ve felt this growing urge to connect. To be around people. To have conversations that don’t feel rushed or shallow. And I’ve been putting in the effort. I’ve been reaching out, saying yes, showing up. But the more I try, the more drained I feel. It’s confusing — doing the very thing I say I want, and still feeling like I need to retreat afterward. Like I’m overextending just to meet the baseline of connection.
And I think what I’m realizing is… connection takes energy. It’s not effortless, even when it’s good. And when you’ve spent years giving — to friends, to partners, to work, to family — you start to feel that cost more acutely. You become more careful. You start asking yourself: how do I keep showing up for others without disappearing in the process?
Over time, I’ve learned how to protect my peace. Not in a walled-off, “never let anyone in” kind of way — more like an internal recalibration. I know what it feels like to be around people and still feel lonely. I know what it feels like to keep giving until there’s nothing left. And now, I’m a little more selective. I listen for how I feel around people — if I’m energized or exhausted after. That tells me a lot.
Recently, I spent the day at the beach with a friend. It was simple — we swam, ate, talked, did nothing, did everything. And suddenly it was hours later. I didn’t check my phone once. I didn’t feel like I had to. I felt safe, present, unguarded. And it made me realize how rare that feeling has become.
We talked about how certain relationships — friendships, dating, family — have taken a toll. About how some people are takers, knowingly or not. And how we’ve both had to learn, sometimes painfully, to notice when we’re giving too much. At one point, I shared something I’d once heard: that life is like riding a train — people get on and off at different stops, but you’re searching for the ones who stay with you to your destination. It’s not always about who leaves, but about learning not to chase after the ones who weren’t meant to stay.
Amy’s reflections made me think about how we often glorify solitude — and I do think there’s power in being alone, in liking your own company. I’ve worked hard to get to that place. But sometimes I wonder… When does solitude become self-protection? When does it shift from restorative to isolating? And how do we know the difference?
That’s the space I’m in right now. Wanting connection, needing solitude. Trying not to swing too far in either direction. Still learning how to give without overgiving. Still learning that not every quiet spell is loneliness — and not every connection is worth the cost.
So if you’re in that in-between space too — not quite isolated, but not deeply connected either — I hope you know you’re not doing it wrong. It just means you’re being careful with your energy. It means you’ve probably been through enough to know what it feels like to be emptied out, and you’re trying not to let that happen again.
by Maria Sosa | Apr 26, 2026 | Recent Posts
“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” – Joseph Campbell
Looking back to when I first started college, I remember the constant pressure I put on myself to have everything figured out. I had this very specific vision of who I wanted to be and what my life should look like. I thought that if I could just stick to the plan, control all the variables, then everything would fall into place.
But as is often the case, life had other plans.
Nothing went exactly the way I imagined it would. And at first, that terrified me. The unknown felt like failure. Like I had somehow lost control. I struggled — still do, if I’m honest — with sitting in the grey space, the in-between, where things are unfolding but still unclear.
That discomfort with uncertainty has been one of my biggest personal challenges. There’s something deeply unsettling about not knowing what’s next. It makes us feel exposed, unanchored. And yet, I’ve started to see that this space — the unknown — is where most of life happens.
Why We Fear the Unknown
Fear of the unknown is deeply human. It’s wired into us — a survival instinct rooted in our need for safety and control. When we don’t know what’s coming, our minds often rush to worst-case scenarios. We imagine the risks, the disappointments, the things that might break us.
We also grow up in a world that teaches us to value clarity, direction, and progress. We’re taught to make plans, follow through, and stay ahead. So when the path suddenly shifts, or disappears altogether, it can feel like we’ve somehow fallen behind — or failed.
And yet, I’ve realized that the discomfort isn’t always a sign that something is wrong. Sometimes it’s a sign that something is shifting.
Soothing Through Uncertainty
When life throws curveballs, I’ve had to learn how to self-soothe — how to calm the internal panic and meet myself with patience.
Sometimes, this looks like taking a step back. Turning off the noise. Going for a walk. Taking a breath. Reminding myself that just because I don’t have the answers right now doesn’t mean I never will.
Other times, it’s about leaning into small acts of trust. Trusting that I’ve made it through uncertainty before. Trusting that even if I can’t see the full picture, I can still take the next step. Trusting that I don’t have to have it all figured out in order to be OK.
What Helps Me Now
I’ve learned (and am still learning) to make peace with the fact that control is often an illusion. I can plan, prepare, and hope — but at some point, I have to release the grip.
Instead of forcing clarity, I’ve started to ask different questions:
What can I actually control in this moment?
What would it look like to be kind to myself right now?
What’s the smallest next step I can take?
And more importantly: What do I need to feel safe within myself, even if nothing around me feels certain?
Alma’s Response to “Being OK with the Unknown”
Reading this felt like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed.
I really felt your words, especially the part about how we’re conditioned to believe that uncertainty automatically equals failure. That hit. I’ve definitely been in that place where the unknown didn’t just feel uncomfortable, it felt unbearable. I think it was because sometimes the unknown feels like proof that I am doing something wrong, or not trying hard enough, or falling behind everyone else who seemingly has their life all figured out (side note: no one has life figured out, no matter how well adjusted they seem).
I think that’s what makes uncertainty so sneaky. It doesn’t just shake our plans—it targets our self-worth. It makes us question our choices, our timing, even our identity because it compares us to others. And like you said, this is not just a personal fear we’re all destined to face, it’s been reinforced through societal norms. We’re raised to idolize and desire control. To pick a lane early and stay in it. To be “on track.” To follow your dreams and everything will work itself out. But life… rarely works like that.
What I love about your post is the shift in how you’re framing it—not as something to fear, but as something to be with. Something to expose yourself to, even if it still makes you uneasy. That in-between space you describe—the gray area—is so real, and so uncomfortable, but also strangely human.
Your section on soothing really stood out to me. Particularly when you said “just because I don’t have the answers right now doesn’t mean I never will.” That sentence alone was a comfort and very much-needed reminder. There’s so much pressure to know, to be sure, to feel settled. But sometimes the most important thing we can do for ourselves is to stay curious, even when it would be easier to shut down and force ourselves to come to some conclusion.
I also appreciated the way you wrote about trust—not the big, abstract kind, but the small, practiced kind. Trusting that we’ve made it through before. I like to think of this trust as the trust in taking that one next step, even when you can’t see the entirety of the staircase. That’s something I’ve been trying to work on too.
Thank you for putting words to something so many of us feel but rarely admit. There’s a kind of quiet courage in choosing not to force certainty; In choosing to stay soft in the unknown. And your reflection reminded me that we don’t need to wait until we “figure it all out” to be okay. Sometimes, okay just means showing up anyway—with shaky hands and an open mind.
by Alma Calderón | Apr 22, 2026 | Recent Posts
“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.
