“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!