how not to take it home

Whose bag is it anyway?

People often ask me about vicarious trauma as an occupational hazard for therapists.

“It must be hard hearing what people are going through.”

“I’ll bet it really affects you sometimes.”

“How do you not take people’s stress home with you?”

Great questions. Smart people still ask me those things. And I used to have what my mom would call a “smart answer.” Except I was being serious.

“I’ll tell you when I figure that out. I totally take that stuff home with me. I’m so empathetic. I care so much.”

[Translation: “I’m kind of a hero, I guess. No big deal.”]

But one day I was at a group supervision session, with a bunch of other empathetic heroes with gooey bleeding hearts—school counsellors and social workers—all sharing professional challenges and offering each other support. Our group leader was Jan, a seasoned pro with the steadiest of hands. Now Jan is running a wildlife rehabilitation nonprofit, saving injured and orphaned wild animals and returning them to their natural habitats. So she’s, like, actually a hero.

Anyway. I was telling the group about a very tough case: a 12-year-old client who was really suffering. Kids are at the mercy of their adults, and can’t do much about their own situations. If things get bad enough, we can call child protection, who will probably make things worse for everybody. It’s Kafka for kids. And this particular kid? Her adults couldn’t have failed harder if they’d tried.

“It’s hard on me,” I told the group. “I go home feeling this kid’s trauma.”

Then I waited for the chorus of sympathy, but I got something else—from Jan.

What Jan said that day changed the way I deal with the serious, difficult things I listen to when I go to work. It peeled off my hero mask and shamed me. Her words echoed in my ears, revealing an arrogance, a presumptuousness I immediately knew I needed to lose. Honestly, I hear her words every day:

“Why would you take this kid’s trauma home with you?” Jan said. “It isn’t yours.”