In 2012, I was a clinical fellow SLP in an elementary school in Williamsburg, Virginia. Young, fresh, and genuinely excited about the work. I had no idea what was about to happen on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon.
It was standard practice for me to walk my clients to the therapy room. They were first and second graders, so escorting them had the added benefit of extra time to engage their therapy goals on the walk over. That part of the day I genuinely loved.
On this particular afternoon, I went to pull a small group, and one little boy, who usually liked to hold hands and swing arms as we walked, declined. He was quieter than usual. Less bubbly. I noticed it immediately.
I got down on his level in the hallway and asked, "No arm swings today?"
He looked at me and said, "My daddy bopped my back bad!"
Time stopped. The walls of that hallway felt like they were closing in. I heard him. I heard every word of what he said. I just did not want to believe them.
Six Minutes
What happened next took six minutes. Here is what I did in those six minutes: I walked with him to collect the other two children for our session. We all walked together to the therapy room, where I gave them a Melissa and Doug Traffic Jam puzzle to work on together. While they were focused on the puzzle, I sent a brief email to my CF supervisor and to the assistant principal, subject line: HELP student reported concern. I noted only that this student had shared something of great concern and that I needed to speak with one of them as soon as possible. Then I sat with those children and finished the session like a professional.
Six minutes. That is how long it took for a precious little boy to share something devastating and for me to take the first responsible step in response.
Within the hour I was in the assistant principal's office, repeating verbatim what he had said. I filled out the required form. By end of day, I received notification that a district mental health professional and social worker had been assigned to the situation.
Fourteen Years Later
I still carry the emotional residue of that afternoon. I still see that little boy's face in that hallway. I know I am not alone in this. Every SLP who has spent meaningful time in this field has a version of that story. A geriatric patient whose status went from bad to worse no matter what you did. A child client living in the foster system. A family navigating financial crisis. A parent in the middle of a divorce falling apart in your therapy room. The list is long and each entry has a face.
This work is intimate by nature. When you are working on a swallowing evaluation or sitting at floor level with a child and making something click for them, you are close to people in a way that most professionals never are. And closeness means the weight transfers.
The Question Worth Asking
What are you still carrying that was never yours to hold?
I ask this respectfully and from the same place of care that this whole brand is built on. We enter this profession with a mission to ultimately say goodbye to each and every client after they have successfully demonstrated the skills in their treatment plan. That goodbye is the whole point. The work is designed to end in a release.
Are you able to honor your own work and your own self by not carrying the burden of every single exchange long after it has ended?
If your honest answer is no, that is okay. I have found it genuinely helpful to mark the moment of discharge with intention. I tell each client I discharge how honored I was to have been a part of their journey. That statement is as much for me as it is for them. It is my way of giving my brain a signal to release. I still remember clients. I still have moments I can easily recall. But I remind myself that it is not my duty to carry every burden indefinitely.
When we do our most devoted work, we make space for each client to bring their full life picture into the frame. We can keep the picture and still be allowed to change the frame.
With care for you,
Kim
