Latest / The Good Fight: People Fighting for Justice & Change / Carrying Grief While Healing Others: The Heavy Load of Care | The Good Fight
Transcript
- You’re holding someone else’s broken pieces in your hands, and you’re terrified that if you stop moving for even a second, they’ll slip through your fingers and cut you. Let me tell you something I learned the hard way: the crack in your own heart isn’t a flaw in your foundation; it’s the very place where the light gets in to help them see their way out. I want you to take a deep breath right now. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Good. Now, I need you to be honest with yourself about what you carried into this room today. Not the groceries, not the emails, not the laundry that’s been piling up like a snowdrift by the door. I’m talking about the weight in your chest. That specific, heavy ache that settles behind your ribs when you listen to someone describe their pain, their loss, or their anger, and you feel it resonate so deeply inside you that you almost forget whose story it is. We call ourselves helpers. We wear badges that say Community Organizer, Social Worker, Friend, Neighbor, Mentor. But we rarely talk about the cost of wearing those badges. We talk about the wins. We celebrate the policy changes, the meals delivered, the doors opened. But we don’t usually sit in the quiet aftermath and acknowledge that every time we open ourselves to another person’s suffering, we let a little bit of that suffering settle into our own bones. It’s subtle. It’s invisible. And it is exhausting in a way that sleep cannot fix. You might think you’re fine because you’re still standing, still working, still showing up. But I know you’re tired. I can hear it in the silence between your words. You are carrying grief that isn’t entirely yours, and you’ve been told that’s just part of the job description. There is a dangerous myth in our world of care work. It’s the idea that to help someone effectively, you must be an empty vessel. A clean slate. A pristine container that has no residue of its own pain, no scars, no history of breaking. We are taught that if we bring our own baggage into the room, we are contaminating the space. We worry that if the person across from us sees a flicker of sadness in our eyes, they will think we are weak, or worse, that we are judging them. So we polish our surfaces. We smooth over our edges. We pretend we are made of steel and good intentions. But here is the truth, and I need you to let this sink in: nobody heals from steel. Steel doesn’t hold warmth. Steel doesn’t understand the texture of tears. What heals is connection. And connection requires vulnerability. When you share your own humanity—your own small, manageable struggles—with the person you are trying to help, you aren’t making the space heavier. You are making it real. You are signaling that they are not alone in the dark. But to do that, you have to admit that you are also in the dark sometimes. You have to admit that you are grieving too. Maybe you’re grieving a version of the world that never came to be. Maybe you’re grieving the friends who didn’t make it. Maybe you’re just grieving the sheer magnitude of the work ahead. Acknowledging that burden is not weakness. It is the most honest form of solidarity we have. Let’s get practical for a moment. Because I know you, and I know you’re looking for a solution, a fix, a way to turn off the tap. But there is no switch. There is only management. Compassion fatigue is not a character flaw. It is a physiological response to prolonged exposure to stress and trauma. Your nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do: it is trying to protect you from overload. When you feel numb, when you feel irritable, when you find yourself snapping at the very people you love most, your body is screaming for a break. It is saying, 'I have given enough. I need to refill.' I remember a time early in my organizing days when I thought pushing through the exhaustion was a virtue. I showed up late. I showed up angry. I showed up distracted. And I hurt the very community I was trying to serve. I realized then that my burnout wasn’t just hurting me; it was diluting the quality of care I could offer. If you are running on fumes, you are not helping anyone. You are just adding more chaos to a world that already has too much. So we have to treat our capacity like a resource. Like water. Like food. Like rent money. It is finite. And if we do not budget for our own emotional health, we will go bankrupt. And then who helps whom? This is the hard part. Setting boundaries. For many of us, especially women raised to believe that our worth is tied to how much we can give, saying 'no' feels like a betrayal. It feels selfish. It feels like we are abandoning the post. But let me ask you this: would you let a doctor perform surgery after thirty-six hours without sleep? Would you let a pilot fly a plane with engine failure because they felt guilty about leaving the passengers waiting? No. We demand competence and safety from professionals. Why do we deny it to ourselves? Boundaries are not walls. They are gates. They are the structures that allow us to control who enters our space and for how long. When you set a boundary, you are not rejecting the other person. You are protecting the relationship. You are ensuring that when you do show up, you are fully present, fully energized, and fully capable of offering genuine support rather than resentful obligation. Say no to the extra shift when you are already stretched thin. Say no to the emotional labor of listening to someone vent for three hours when you have nothing left to give. Say no to the guilt trip. These boundaries are not punishments. They are preservations. They keep you in the fight longer. They keep you sane. And they ensure that the help you provide is sustainable, not sacrificial. We often think of self-care as bubble baths and face masks. And sure, those things are nice. But true self-care in the context of systemic injustice is deeper. It is discipline. It is the rigorous practice of checking in with yourself before you check in with everyone else. It is recognizing that your grief is valid and deserves attention, not just dismissal. It is understanding that healing is not linear. Some days you will feel strong. Other days, you will feel like you are drowning in the collective sorrow of the world. On those days, you do not push harder. You rest. You lean on others. You allow yourself to be held. This is where community comes in. We cannot carry this burden alone. That is the lesson I learned after burning out as a nonprofit director. I tried to be the savior. I tried to hold it all. And I collapsed. What saved me was letting others save me. It was admitting that I needed help. It was sharing my grief with trusted peers who understood the weight. We need spaces where we can drop the mask. Where we can say, 'I am not okay,' and hear back, 'Me neither, but we are here together.' This is the antidote to isolation. This is the solvent that cleans the stubborn stain of despair. We heal in circles, not in silos. So look around you. Who is holding space for you? If the answer is 'no one,' then it is time to start building that circle. Start small. One trusted friend. One safe hour. One honest conversation. So, what’s next? How do we move forward with this weight without being crushed by it? First, name it. Acknowledge the grief. Do not bury it under busyness. Write it down. Speak it aloud. Let it exist. Second, distribute the load. You do not have to carry everything. Identify the parts of your role that drain you the most and delegate, share, or eliminate them. Third, prioritize restoration. Make rest non-negotiable. Treat it with the same urgency as a medical appointment. Finally, reconnect with your why. Remember why you started this work. Was it for justice? For love? For the belief that things can be better? Hold onto that vision. Let it pull you forward when the weight feels too heavy. You are not broken because you are tired. You are human because you care. And caring deeply in a world that often breaks hearts is a brave, radical act. But you must tend to your own garden before you can tend to the forest. Your grief is not a liability. It is proof of your engagement. It is evidence that you are alive, that you are connected, that you are fighting for what matters. Honor it. Rest in it. And then, when you are ready, pick up the pieces again. Not because you have to, but because you choose to. And because you know, deep down, that you are stronger together than you are alone. Thank you for showing up for yourself today. That is the hardest work there is. I’m Judy Growney, and I’ll be right here next week. Take care of that heart of yours. It’s doing important work.