The Quiet Hour: What Nearly 20 Years of Crisis Work Taught Me About Listening, Not Fixing
The me that started in social services nearly twenty years ago was full of naive ambition. Fresh out of school at 19, I figured this work meant being the hero, the expert who delivered the perfect advice to turn a life around. I believed I was there to dispense solutions and logic.
The Burden of Expectation
I was quickly taught the arrogance of that assumption.
The reality hit hard: you can’t help those in acute crisis until they are stabilised. Even then, their reality often dwarfed my own limited life experience.
I worked with children whose childhoods were stolen by the court system, and women carrying the literal scars of violence, including one with a bullet still embedded in her brain. What advice could I possibly offer to a person carrying that kind of weight?
The people I served weren't looking for my words or my solutions; they were seeking hope—the simple promise that someone would be present, believe them, and hold the space during court, family visitations, or probation check-ins.
This realisation, that my job was to simply be with them in the quiet, messy moment, not to fix their lives, is the single lesson that allowed me to endure and thrive for two decades.
The Difference Between Fixing and Holding Space
The innate human urge, especially for professionals, is to jump in and fix the problem. When someone is drowning, we instinctively want to throw them a ladder, a life preserver, or a detailed swimming lesson. We want to apply the logic we learned in school and our life experiences: If A, then B.
But the most dangerous crises are impervious to logic. A person in suicidal despair, or reeling from acute trauma, can’t process a five-point plan. Trying to force a logical solution onto an emotional catastrophe is like trying to fix a broken heart with a spreadsheet. It only creates distance.
The liberating truth I learned is that the most powerful thing you can offer is validation and emotional regulation, not a to-do list. The goal shifts from doing to being.
When someone is in pain, they don't need a diagnosis; they need to be witnessed without judgment. I learned early on that "I hear you" is infinitely more powerful than "You should try…"
The Question That Changes Everything
I realised the hardest person to connect with wasn't the client; it was the one you've already judged. This lesson crystallised very early in my career during my time working in a residential group home for youth.
I noticed a disturbing pattern: staff, many of whom were new to their careers, became cynical toward the most challenging client: an ill-mannered, difficult youth everyone had written off as "problematic."
This environment of judgment turned toxic, creating a cycle where staff abuse of power mirrored the trauma the kids were already experiencing. I was disturbed, yet I realised I too failed to connect with him.
I sat with that failure one quiet night, reflecting on how easily I connected with other youth, but how my guard went up with him. I realised the failure was mine. I needed to change my approach.
The next day, I found him messing with the drapes in the common area. Instead of scolding him, I consciously chose genuine curiosity and simply asked, “Why are you doing that?” His answer was simple, devastating, and entirely genuine: “It feels like a hug.”
My professional perspective changed. The "annoying" or "problematic" behaviour wasn't malice; it was a desperate, maladaptive attempt to generate an ounce of attention and care that his world had deprived him of.
The lesson wasn't about what I said, but the courage to drop the professional script, see the scared human being underneath the disruptive behaviour, and recognise the fundamental need for connection. That single moment became my guiding principle for the next twenty years.
Responsibility To the, Not For
The realisation that you can’t fix a person’s life is important, but the realisation that you also aren't responsible for their outcomes is the key to longevity in this field. This is the ethical and emotional boundary that keeps professionals from burning out.
For a long time, I carried the weight of every call, every case, every person who walked back out the door. Trying to be responsible for another person’s choice is unsustainable, arrogant, and dangerous to your own well-being. It is the fastest path to vicarious trauma and career exit.
The sustainable model is to be responsible to the person. My job is to treat them with dignity, offer every resource available, collaborate on a safety plan, and be fully present in the moment they need me most. I can be their lifeline, their compass, and their witness—but I cannot be their entire universe.
Respecting their autonomy, even when I fear their choices, is the only way to endure. This shift from saviour to companion allowed me to stay grounded and effective, year after year.
The Humble Reward of Being in Social Services in Canada
My nearly twenty-year journey in social work has been defined by a move from idealistic problem-solving to professional humility, culminating in the notion that my greatest value in my daily work as a social worker is not in fixing, but in simply holding space.
Success in this career isn't measured in dramatic rescues (although they very well happen); it’s measured in quiet moments of connection: a curtain that feels like a hug, a silence that allows a truth to surface, or a moment of validation that gives someone the strength to make it to the next day. The real reward is knowing that you were there, present and unwavering, when the world around them felt dark and chaotic.
If the lessons in this post resonate with you, the next step is moving from presence to proactive support. You can learn how to recognise, understand, and respond to signs of mental health and substance use challenges by taking a Mental Health First Aid (MHFA) course by yours truly.
Take Action: Find a local Mental Health First Aid (MHFA) training session near you to learn how to be the compassionate first response your community needs.
