I couldn’t do what you do
As I meticulously packed my gear after a two-week stint in Houston, TX, responding to the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey, a peculiar sense of self-doubt enveloped me. This wasn't the first time I felt such doubt; it had manifested itself in various forms throughout the years—starting my practice, buying a house, embarking on new business ventures. It wasn't an overwhelming feeling, but it lingered persistently.
Gathering my belongings, I headed to Bush National Airport, the drive fraught with the challenges of navigating a city grappling with the aftermath of a devastating hurricane. The hotel lobby mirrored the weariness etched on the faces of the staff, a weariness I recognized from other disaster responses. Despite their exhaustion, they maintained a poised and professional demeanor, fielding questions and negative comments from displaced residents and weary travelers.
The drive to the airport was quiet and unsettling. Although the prospect of reuniting with my family beckoned, an inexplicable reluctance to leave settled in. This sentiment often accompanied the conclusion of my work in disaster-stricken areas, a feeling of not having done enough or letting someone down. As I returned the rental car, the attendant, worn by the events, hugged me and expressed gratitude. A lump formed in my throat as I mumbled a hurried "you're welcome" before making my way to the terminal.
The flight home was uneventful, offering a moment of reflection as I grappled with the lingering self-doubt. Recalling the heart-wrenching conversations at Children’s Hospital, counseling business owners who lost everything, and witnessing the myriad images of devastation, my mind also lingered on the acts of kindness, the volunteers at the Relief BBQ encampment, and the connection forged during a night in downtown Houston.
Ordering an Uber, I yearned for a silent journey, a respite from recounting the past weeks. However, my wish collided with reality as my chatty driver engaged me in conversation, probing into the purpose of my trip. While part of me wanted to rebuff the questions, I responded with the truth—I am a trauma therapist, and I was there to offer support to those affected by the disaster.
The conversation led me to contemplate the phrase, "I couldn't do what you do," a sentiment I've encountered often. Dissecting it, I realized it revealed more about the speaker than my profession. We all possess varying degrees of compassion, a natural inclination to alleviate others' distress. Yet, actively engaging in compassionate acts in the midst of a disaster is uncomfortable for many.
Most of us seek safety and security, following Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs to achieve self-actualization. Those in professions like mine often place their needs second, willingly confronting discomfort and peril to extend compassionate care. Lt. Col. Dave Grossman's analogy of the sheep, wolf, and sheepdog captures this essence eloquently.
But must one be a sheepdog, a warrior, to show compassionate care? The answer is no. It requires a self-inventory, asking crucial questions about mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual readiness. Compassion is never easy, but it is undeniably meaningful. It's about standing up for others when they can't stand on their own, a profound act that transcends comfort zones and self-doubt.
