The quiet toll of institutional work & finding the light again

As a new therapist, you’re often told to “niche down”, to specialize in a certain type of client. Some say the more specific the niche, the more successful you’ll be. Of course, in this context, “successful” often really means “busy.”

From my instagram - @ac.counselling

When I began my master’s program, I dreamed of one day opening a private practice that provided counselling to incarcerated people. My time working in federal corrections showed me how deeply mental health services are needed inside prisons. In the institutions where I worked, the mental health team often consisted of four or five practitioners serving a population of nearly 300 inmates. Parole officers like myself often stepped into supportive counselling roles because the mental health staff were just so busy.

I still remember finding one local counsellor who agreed to help inmates complete Crime Victim Assistance Program paperwork so they could access free counselling. She was even willing to travel to the prisons, a trip that likely doubled her time commitment, just to see clients for a single hour. Witnessing her dedication and seeing first-hand how the inmates on my caseload benefited from her care reinforced my belief that psychotherapy focused on trauma and the root causes of criminogenic behaviour could help advance the service’s broader mandate of reducing recidivism and supporting rehabilitation.

Before I finished my master’s degree, I accepted a secondment with the Department of National Defence (DND), working remotely with current and former Canadian Armed Forces members. This shift in both workplace (from prisons to my home) and clientele (from inmates to service members) brought the unexpected gift of perspective.

I recently told a friend that during my years in corrections, everything felt dark. It wasn’t only the horrific case files or the painful realities of the people I supervised, it was also the institutional politics, the systemic barriers, and the emotional weight that seemed to press down on everyone, staff and inmates alike. Moving to the DND was like having someone slowly turn up a dimmer switch. Light slowly began to filter in. Within months, I could look back at my time in corrections and see clearly just how heavy that environment had been.

When I later began interning as a psychotherapist in nonprofit organizations, I noticed my nervous system react to particular clients in a peculiar way. Working with men who had histories of criminal entrenchment activated a new experience of dissociation. At first, my heart would swell with empathy and I would feel the familiar urge to support and nurture. But almost as quickly, something inside me would shift. I’d feel myself disconnect, emotionally retreat, and observe the session from a distance, as if watching through glass.

I now recognize this as a form of vicarious trauma, the kind we receive annual virtual lectures about, but rarely take seriously until it’s living in our own bodies. I’ve been doing my own therapeutic work to process it and heal.

This experience has guided what seems like a natural evolution in my counselling niche. While I began with a focus on incarcerated individuals, my practice has shifted toward supporting those who work in institutional environments, people who carry the hidden emotional costs of these systems. One day, I do hope to be able to support incarcerated individuals as well, but for now, I need to listen to my body. My journey has come full circle; from supporting those within institutions to holding space for those impacted by them, offering understanding to others who know the toll that kind of darkness can take.