What Compassion Sometimes Costs
Some conversations we remember because they’re dramatic, but some because they are honest.
This is the latter.
Last week on my trip, I met a woman who used to be a nurse. Early in her career, she worked in hospice.
She told me that during those first years, she often couldn’t sleep at night. Not because of the hours or the work itself, but because she was so, so sad. What surprised her more than that was that, she thought more often than not, the families weren’t nearly as sad as she was.
She wasn’t judging them. She understood that grief shows up in different ways—sometimes as tears, sometimes numbness, sometimes focusing on other things. But she was the one, sitting there day after day, watching people reach the end of their lives. She was the one absorbing the small moments: the silence, the unfinished conversations, their loneliness, the way a room is when someone knows they are dying.
She would carry those moments home with her.The families went back to their lives; she went back to her thoughts. And for a long time, sleep was hard.
While listening to her, I was struck by how often this happens with people who care for others. Teachers, nurses, aides, counselors, all the people whose job is to stay present. They don’t just do the work; they hold the weight of it; they carry it. Even when they don’t talk about it. Even if no one sees it.
I had written something along these lines in my book before I ever met this woman. Meeting her didn’t add drama to the idea; it added truth.
Some people feel more deeply simply because they are closer to the moment. Not closer by blood, but by presence. And that kind of closeness can be heavy.
I’m glad she told me her story. It’s one worth remembering.
It’s a reminder that presence has a cost, and that cost is often invisible.
Albert Jr.
Author of The Nature Within Us
Side Trails 🐇🥚🔥
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