The Cost of Caring - Vicarious Trauma

As I walked home from my son’s school this morning, after secretly following him and his friend there to ensure they made it safely, I thought to myself, “I’ll tell you what’s not a great career choice for an anxious mom – federal corrections”.

Hearing sensational crime stories in the news is one thing, but sitting down face-to-face with the people responsible for the crime is another. You’re no longer afforded the privilege of keeping those involved at arm’s length when you pause your podcast or turn off your TV; now they are on your caseload, asking you at 8:00 am about whether you can help them make a phone call.

When I was working in prison, I became a master compartmentalizer. My strategy was to imagine each person on my caseload as they would have been when they were the same age as my son. This allowed me to show (and really feel) empathy for individuals who committed truly atrocious crimes. I was even questioned a few times about whether the clear empathy I showed for those on my caseload interfered with my professional judgement. That is a ridiculous story for another time.

My compartmentalization didn’t begin to break down until I had stopped working in prison for a few months. Perhaps my mind and body no longer felt the need to enforce those protective mechanisms anymore, and the horror of what I had read, seen, heard, and experienced began to seep into my consciousness. I couldn’t enjoy true crime podcasts or documentaries anymore, I avoided the news, and I started to see danger everywhere. I had seen how the people society considers to be monsters could look and act so normal – how they could be charming, witty, and even boring. No one could be trusted.

The way I lived my life began to change – I had to be 10 minutes early to pick my son up from school, I couldn’t sleep when he went to his dad’s house on the weekends, and I moved my daily runs from my beautiful local park to a treadmill at the gym. Worst-case scenarios became likely probabilities in my mind.

My experience is not unique; it’s vicarious trauma. It’s what happens when empathy becomes exposure. And while mine showed up as anxiety, others might feel it as irritability, detachment, or hopelessness.

And here’s what I’ve learned: vicarious trauma isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s the cost of proximity to human pain, and it can be healed. Once you name it, you can begin to gently untangle it. Healing involves creating regular space to process what you’ve absorbed, often with a therapist or friend who understands trauma work. Practices that reconnect and ground you to your body, like EMDR, mindfulness, and movement, can help signal to your system that you’re safe again.

Over time, the goal isn’t to better compartmentalize or harden yourself - it’s to find your solid ground and restore your capacity for empathy.