When caring hurts

Before I trained as a social worker, I knew it was work requiring emotional presence. I knew empathy wasn’t optional. I also knew – because I’ve always been someone who feels deeply – that emotional labour would be something I’d need to actively manage if I was going to stay grounded in this profession.

What I didn’t anticipate was how quiet professional grief can be – or how uncertain it can make you feel about yourself, particularly early in your career.

That uncertainty surfaced for me after a phone call that told me one of my clients had died. It was sudden. It wasn’t the outcome anyone expected. And in the hours and days that followed, I wasn’t only trying to process what had happened. I was also reflecting on what I was feeling, what I was allowed to feel, and what those feelings meant for my professional identity.

I’ve been a practising social worker for almost three years. Still relatively early in my career, but no longer new. During that time, I’ve supported people through complex circumstances, including end of life. I’ve had two previous clients pass away. Those losses were sad, and I felt genuine sympathy for their families. But this experience was different. It affected me in a way I hadn’t expected – and one I’m still learning how to understand.

Professional grief and relationship-based practice

I’ll call this client Mary.

With Mary, I’d developed a consistent, relationship-based way of working. One that stayed within professional boundaries but was human. We’d spent time together. We’d gone for coffees. She trusted me enough to talk openly about the things that frightened her and the things she hoped for. She contacted me often — so often that I eventually had to introduce a bit more structure around our calls, simply to make sure I could give her the time and attention she deserved.

She would usually start our conversations by saying, “I’ve got news!” I’d reply, “Good news or bad?” Sometimes it was good. Sometimes it wasn’t. But I was always part of the telling.

When I received the hospital admission notification, I assumed it would be like previous admissions. Mary had been admitted many times before, and she had always recovered. I expected to hear she would be discharged or home soon.

Instead, when I contacted the hospital, I was told she was unconscious and receiving end-of-life care.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I was informed that she had died.

What am I supposed to feel?

In that moment, I didn’t immediately know how to respond – emotionally or professionally. I felt genuine sadness and a sense of shock, but I also felt uncertainty. I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate to feel as affected as I did. I didn’t know whether I could say out loud that this had upset me.

My manager – who is genuinely supportive – had already checked in with me when it became clear that my client’s condition had deteriorated. She acknowledged that situations like this can be particularly difficult, especially earlier in your career, and reminded me that support was there.

And yet, I hesitated.

Not because support wasn’t available, but because I wasn’t sure whether I was allowed to need it. I worried that if I admitted I was struggling, it might be seen as a lack of resilience, or as evidence that I cared too much.

That internal conflict – not the system, not my colleagues – was the hardest part to navigate.

Emotional labour: the work beneath the work

Social work is not only practical or procedural. It is emotional. The concept of emotional labour, first described by sociologist Arlie Hochschild (1983), recognises the effort required to manage our own emotions while remaining attuned to the emotional needs of others.

In social work, that labour isn’t an added extra – it is central to the role.

We build relationships that are meant to be consistent, trusting, and responsive. When someone we’ve supported dies, it isn’t simply a case closure or a handover. It is a loss. One that doesn’t fit neatly into timescales or task lists.

Research into professional grief by social work professor Carol Tosone suggests these reactions are both common and understandable – particularly where there has been sustained, relationship-based work. Experiencing grief in these circumstances isn’t a sign of blurred boundaries. It is often a reflection of meaningful, ethical practice.

Resilience is not detachment

Research challenges the assumption that resilience means emotional detachment. Bonanno (2004) describes resilience not as emotional avoidance, but as the ability to experience, reflect on, and recover from emotional impact.

Resilient practitioners don’t stop caring. They learn how to carry care in a way that is sustainable.

For me, that distinction matters. I don’t want to become detached. I don’t want to lose the capacity for empathy that drew me to this work in the first place. What I’m learning is that staying human in social work isn’t about feeling less — it’s about learning how to hold those feelings safely, with reflection and support.

When support exists, but permission feels unclear

I want to be clear: I was not unsupported. I work within a team that is thoughtful and responsive. The challenge wasn’t access to support — it was my uncertainty about whether I was entitled to it.

When I was asked, “Are you okay?” I didn’t know what answer was acceptable.

Could I say no? Would that be seen as unprofessional, or as part of being human in this role?

Those questions lingered far longer than the practical aspects of the loss.

So, am I cut out for this work?

Writing this has made me reflect on a question that often sits quietly beneath this kind of work. But I’ve realised it may not be the right one.

Better questions might be: 

• How do we make space for professional grief without hiding it?
• How do we stay emotionally present without being overwhelmed?
• And how do we support practitioners – particularly earlier in their careers – to understand that feeling deeply is not a flaw, but something that needs care and containment?

I don’t have all the answers. But I do know that acknowledging professional grief – rather than silencing it – is part of ethical, reflective practice.

Final reflections: holding space for quiet grief

When someone you have supported dies, especially unexpectedly, it is okay to feel sadness. It is okay to feel unsettled. And it is okay to need space to reflect on what that loss means.

Grief in social work doesn’t always need fixing. Sometimes it simply needs to be witnessed – by colleagues, supervisors, and by ourselves.

Perhaps that is one of the ways we remain human in this profession.

Louise Gallacher is a social worker in a specialist learning disability team in Central Scotland. She is passionate about rights-based practice, supported decision-making, and ethical reform in social care. The views expressed here are her own.