What was I thinking?
I somehow had the idea that I could provide care to people who were suffering and it would be their suffering, and I could somehow leave it behind at the end of the day.
But at the end of the day, I realized that their suffering was still with me and it bothered me and sometimes I felt like crying for no obvious reason.
A touching song on the radio or a Hallmark moment would get me every time, but why?
It was confusing.
Oh, I got it, but I didn’t get it.
Then I thought, well, this stuff ought to bother me. It tells me I’m human.
Over time, I began to embrace it. I didn’t want to become a robot.
I wondered if I should be concerned about burnout.
I figured out a way to recognize the clues. If the day ever came when I could do this work and it didn’t bother me, that would be the day I needed to quit and find another job.
I need to feel the suffering of the other, somewhere in my soul.
I found another clue, plain as day, right there in the word compassion.
Compassion, from the Latin, “to suffer with.”
By its very nature, compassion hurts.
It touches my heart and I feel a sense of sadness when others are hurting.
Now, at the end of the day, I do carry some of that pain home with me.
Some days I carry home a lot of pain.
But I’m OK with that.
On those days, I reach out and invite a trusted friend, coworker or family member to show me that same care, and to carry some of my pain.
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