I tend to hang out with human services professionals who are like-minded, so I generally find like-minded professionals are caring, spirited and fired up with good ‘vibes’.

When I tuned into the meeting, I expected it to run like normal. We would all join in, respectfully move between different positions, and share the load to the extent of our capacities.

But when I entered, I realised the meeting was different than usual. The conversation was being heavily directed by one person. The words were determined and assertive, and the energy of the room was sharp and to me felt somewhat spiky. I studied the faces closely of the others, some people quietly present and others engaged in vigorous nodding.

I searched around for my own place in the room. Was I going to speak up, and attempt to shape the space in some way, or roll along and see what happened? I tested out a few comments here and there, but in the end I decided to beat my own strategic retreat.

Present, but not engaged. Attentive, but alert.

I was curious about the experience of others in the room. I assumed others were also feeling tense with the energy.

What was interesting, however, was that the longer I stayed silent the more I realised how diverse the experience was for us all. One person expressed how grateful they felt to be present. Another told a personal story, sparked by some of the words that had flowed through the room.

I remained silent. I couldn’t find a place to stand, and I didn’t feel able to sit.

I have often operated from the basis that asking the question to the room is a useful exercise. That if I’m thinking something, then speak up, for someone else is probably thinking the same thing too.

It’s the kind of internal talk that gives me the courage to put up my hand to ask a question in a crowded hall of people. It’s not necessarily that I think my voice needs to be heard, but rather a belief that my voice might help others.

Yet this willingness to push through and do the difficult things is also a double edged sword. My courage to move sometimes leads me to move too fast. I leave people behind, feeling self assured as I step out ahead.

Or I step out (on an assumption) and then discover it’s not the safe ground I thought.

When I find myself out there, feeling alone in the room, receiving a spiky comment, or just simply noticing the distance, it’s not an easy space to be. I go over and over the decision to act. Trying to recalibrate or correct. Maybe retreating. But the better I am at noticing, the better I have also become at accepting.

I’m not always going to get it right. I’m not defined by my mistakes or my learnings.

I’m not always going to know why, or know how.

I am getting better at just being aware that some days I am not going to be able to develop a coherent narrative, and I will have to keep on moving forward without resolving anything internally.

Maybe there is a useful point to guide my future actions, or maybe there is not. There just is, and it has passed. It is now in the bank of practice experience.

Perhaps it will all make sense another time.

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Written on the lands of the Arrernte people. Sovereignty was never ceded.

This post is a reflective piece on the funding model that underpins most of the work I do.

When I was in university, I recall the lecturer discussing how organisational context shapes your practice. I had come from working in the field of immigration detention prior to my studies, so I was acutely aware of the impacts of working in an area that challenged my values on a daily basis.

Out of the crucible of that work, I came to personal view that if you choose to stay and work in a difficult context, you have to ‘sit on the bus’. Sit with the discomfort and do the work ethically and with integrity. Or get off the bus and become an advocate. Or maybe re-engineer the bus. All pathways are fine, but make a decision.

The same analogy comes to mind when I reflect on how the funding for my work shapes the work itself. Especially as a business owner where I hold a greater level of risk - and appreciation of that risk - in relation to practice decisions.

At the same time, I also bring a philosophy of hope into my practice. Hope that we also have permission to be guided by the fundamentals of the funding model, and the intent of society in funding the service. Not the organisational or bureaucratic layering that occurs when policy becomes practice. These layers are the progressive incursions to good practice, like the one-size-fits-all templates and stipulations for basic tasks, that are intended to do good but can produce formulaic or compliance-based work.

Take, for example, the business of behaviour support in the NDIS. This role is an important piece of the puzzle for people living with disabilities in our community who are, or may be at risk of their human rights being breached. The service is there to safeguard people’s rights, specifically their right to be free, to be supported, and to be in community to the extent they desire. It is also here to do the difficult work that comes with balancing competing needs. Rights-based work at the frontline is not easy, for there is no hierarchy of which and whose rights are more important in any one situation.

At a practical level, this comes into play with the issue of restrictive practices. Within the regulated space of the NDIS in Australia, a behaviour support practitioner can assess and recommend the inclusion of such practices in a support plan. The plan should include how the person and those closest to them were involved in the assessment decision, procedures for safe implementation of the practice, and support for all involved in its use. The plan is then oversighted - in many but not all cases - by an independent authorising body at the State/Territory government level. Practitioners must also be registered with a national commission, and working for a provider that is registered for that type of specialist service.

These safeguards are intended to ensure that difficult frontline practice decisions are clinically sound, evidence-based and person-centred. Yet, inevitably, with the codification of values, comes perverse outcomes.

Practitioners use the commission’s template like it’s a rule, and the process becomes form-filling not participant-driven. The timeframes dictate practice at the expense of therapeutic alliance. Poor plans are rushed through and relationships can be damaged as a result.

What was hard to do initially became even harder in practice, despite the intention of the policy designers that individuals and organisations get quick, safe and effective support.

Of even more concern, however, is the business model for the service itself. The funding for the specialist clinical support is individualised. Although fading and stopping restrictive practice is a collaborative effort, involving complex decisions with many people, the available hours for this work with a client is scooped from the ocean of their support needs. If more hours are required to meet the complexity of the task, or complete statutory requirements, the process for this is long, cumbersome and uncertain. Again, inevitably, practitioners end up leaning into regulatory compliance to protect themselves from potential penalties.

At a deeper level, the current model also drives poor practitioner skills. In a noble decision to improve the depth of the market of practitioners, the framework for qualifications and endorsement of competence was left loose. Practitioners do not need to have allied health qualifications nor specialist training in behaviour support.

Those who endorse practitioners to the commission do not need to demonstrate their qualifications, skills and experience for this critical role. And while the system enables growth in the market of practitioners, when those practitioners are paid at the same level as a qualified psychologist, it also drives businesses to push people through endorsement into positions of responsibility they are not yet ready to hold. It incentivises profit over practice quality.

I know this because I am a behaviour support practitioner, an endorser, a clinical supervisor and a business owner. So I feel the pressure and responsibility of all these roles, and the market forces, from multiple perspectives when I make individual decisions.

So the reflection is, how does this shape my practice? When I have to choose between the time for therapeutic alliance with the imperative to get a document (with consultation) on a regulatory system in time. When I consider how far to step into a discussion with an influential stakeholder when it could jeopardise my continuing ability to provide services to a client. When I have to weigh up the readiness of a practitioner for endorsement while also considering the practical need to have a funding stream for their salary as they develop into their role.

There is no easy answer or simple way through these competing needs. There is the light of the client, and the foundation of trust that is building with them. And the awareness that I do not have to strive for perfection in every moment. If I have been aligned to the underlying purpose of the scheme when taken at a societal level, that is our social licence to operate, I can feel confident enough to navigate through this rocky terrain.

Every ‘bus’ has its challenges, its design flaws, its quirks that become compromises. But, sitting in it, I still have agency. And, importantly, values that guide me.

This post is written on the lands of the Arrernte people; unceded land, always was and always will be.

I had to google the term ‘sociocultural trauma’ to be sure it existed (it does).

It felt like it was needed to put words to a deep vein of community emotion; grief, anger, heartbreak. The sense that another rupture had occurred to our jointly held safety and common humanity.

I am of course referring to the events of a small girl, taken from those who loved her, and harmed by another here in Mparntwe (Alice Springs). RIP Kumanjayi Little Baby.

This event has touched each of us and our community (from family, to town, to nation) in different ways. We are each washing the events as seen, heard and experienced through our own life journey.

What I have been reflecting on these past months is how deeply these kinds of sociocultural traumas are woven into each of our daily lives. That when a harm occurs to a group of people, however defined, the harm continues to show up in the smallest of ways.

I have recently been establishing relationships with new clients. This process is always a delicate one, requiring careful attunement to the small moments. It feels like a slow motion dance, in which each careful step is placed, one after another, noticing and responding to the movements of the other.

With one person, I was enthusiastic for possibilities. Fired up with my knowledge and skill to support them on a social justice task. Aware that I had the information and tools that were needed to help them achieve their goals; with confidence, I started to press forward with my suggestions.

I found myself holding a piece of paper that belonged to another organisation. An organisation that represented the very injustices this client was fighting. For me, as I handed over the paper, I was merely ‘passing on’ accessible information. Helping to prepare them for a moment in which they would have their voice heard.

As I watched them read the piece of paper, I could sense the pictures were triggering traumatic memories. Of feeling disempowered, outnumbered, misunderstood, marginalised. The skin colour of the people in those pictures matched my skin colour. I had been the one holding this paper and passing it over.

The client looked at me and said in a calm voice, something to the effect of ‘you are one of them’. The relationship I had been quietly tending was disintegrating in front of me. The paper lodged in the space between us.

I noticed everything in the room. How I was seated. Where my colleague was standing. The colour of the walls. The absence of windows. The smell of hand sanitiser. Small moments of micro-traumas coalescing into this one experience, the energy in the room shifting and swirling.

I noticed that my desire to help in that moment had been pushing. Not just the paper, thoughtlessly across to my client. But also my idea of what needed to happen next. Who needed to be involved. When this needed to happen. And what was most important to do now.

I noticed how this person had experienced the trauma of colonisation, dispossession, racism and poverty. But, importantly, I remembered traumas of being a victim-survivor of domestic violence.

I reflected that abusers push. They push their views, their goals and their needs onto others. Always that what they think, comes first. Micro-aggression through presumption of being right.

I knew my intentions were to honour and empower this person. Yet my actions had compromised a much deeper trust in their safety. The survivor was here, standing their ground. Asserting their right to decide what, when, and with whom they would align.

I waited. Safety first.

We continued to talk, but I was quieter and my positioning changed. I shifted back into my seat, taking away my purpose-driven posture and moving into a position of curiousity. Waiting.

Then, the direct question came: ‘What do you think?’

It was an invitation, but not to say what needed to be done.

It was an invitation to share who I am, and for reconnection to be reconsidered.

I paused, knowing that these words would be the most important ones I spoke in this meeting.

I spoke to the victim-survivor.

And we continued from there.

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It wasn’t an intentional thing. The weeks crept up. I had drafted something around the time of the tragedy of a small girl in my local town being taken from her family and found later abused and deceased. This post on ‘sociocultural trauma’ will find its place, when it feels right to release it.

I am also noticing a tension between the therapeutic rhythm of writing (being like a good habit of journalling) and a reaction to the subtle, self-imposed pressure to adhere to a deadline.

On balance, however, I am coming to the view that it is beneficial for me to write and to do so regularly. At least fortnightly, but weekly was good too!

Just like all practice, we have our ups and downs, so I’ll chalk this gap up to the experience of the ride.

It’s not all smooth sailing. For many, working in human services is a calling. There is a deeper values drive that compels into this space. An alignment between our sense of who we are and how we want to spend our time in this world.

Yet alongside that purpose also sits the reality of practice. That some days are just plain hard and depressing. Or, as has happened recently, you find yourself on the tail end of a sharp comment. One that keeps returning and returning in quiet moments, settling into the seed of doubt about whether your work lives up to its deeper purpose.

It is inevitable that these dips occur.

This is not work that is a straight line. It flies through the air and escapes out of sight around the corner. It turns you around and suddenly the scene looks entirely different from the other way.

We are all complex human beings, so walking alongside others in service is even more complex again.

Speak to any human services professional about why they do what they do, and they will tell you of moments that felt joyous. That their studies and their training and their experience all collided in one perfect moment with a client.

Less often, do we speak of the other experience. The deflation after a failed attempt to help, the rebuke as we overstep or trip, the words we wish we could stuff back into our mouths.

When I received that spiky comment a month or so ago, I remember being conflicted about how to reply. Draw a line. Discharge. Respond with compassion.

In the end, the more difficult part wasn’t the choice I made in response. It was noticing how the comment sat in my thoughts. That I needed to hold a position of neutrality about my practice alongside pondering the meaning this comment for my work. That the comment could be useful feedback, but it could mean none of that. And perhaps I wouldn’t ever know, one way or the other.

Or maybe it was somewhere in between. A little bit useful feedback and a little bit useful insight.

It was an opportunity to rest in the dip.

And with that said, it’s nice to be back.

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This past fortnight I have been fully immersed in two main tasks: getting through an audit of our services and providing those services to clients with urgent safeguarding needs.

In amongst those critical tasks, I had an exploratory conversation with a person interested in working for me, maintained connection with a regular client, helped out a former employee with a dull but necessary administration task, and supported current staff and students in their daily work.

I commented at one point that my goal for the audit was not to be validated about the excellence of our service by an independent party, but rather to just continuing stepping over the bar so we can continue to operate. Ticking the boxes as needed that helps us keep our doors open and our community safer.

I have deep respect for the standards upon which the auditor was evaluating our service. Yet my respect is not for demonstration of our technical compliance, but rather for the legislators, public servants and advocates who established the intent behind the standards.

The intent that speaks to the deeper responsibility we hold in human services to the care and wellbeing of the people we serve. For example, while I understand the importance of a standard that says ‘an agreement for service must be signed between the parties’, I care more about the conversation that precedes that agreement and the continuous consent for our services than the presence of the signature at a point in time. Mark making is not evidence of informed consent. It is evidence of mark marking.

The deeper responsibility that the mark represents is this ongoing relationship of trust and collaboration between the parties. Between the client and the professional.

Every audit, there is a moment when we find ourselves looking at some area and stating to the auditor: ‘well, this evidence is not as strong as I can see you would like it to be’. And every audit, I have the strong impression that after the auditor hears the feedback from clients and staff, we levitate over the bar and get a green light for another term.

For we are not always perfectly compliant.

We do not always have the exact mark or box or line of text that is being sought. Yet we very clearly have the intent of the standards nailed. We have the heart, the courage, the trust and the goodwill. And at the centre, the client. Always.

Yet complacency is not a good place in which to rest. This year, I reflected deeply about one specific area of the audit. The standard was clear. Unambiguous. The auditor gave me multiple opportunities to provide evidence but it was a struggle to articulate what we do against that standard.

I was honest with the auditor that I was reluctant to enter into a ‘box ticking’ exercise just to be seen to meet the standard. I have more important things to do with clients than ask them to tick boxes, I thought. This would be easy to do, but soul destroying to impose simply for the purpose of being audit compliant for one line in a 20 page standards document. In our context, maybe it was even colonial and colonising.

After we successfully passed the audit, this one line in the standards kept on returning to my mind. What is the intent? This is in here for a reason, we are falling short, and we could do better. I reached out and asked other providers for how they meet this standard. I considered their responses and reflected on how their business was similar or different to mine. There were some great ideas. Some of them could be adapted and integrated.

I reflected too that I had taken one key bit of feedback from the last audit. I had implemented it across a number of different systems with a rigour that I think serves us. This audit area was different but, as with the previous, I could see how it could also be embedded across the business. From expectations about direct work with clients, to requirements in reporting templates, to how we plan and organise ourselves as a business.

With a little more effort, I could see how the intent could be served. And I could see also how I did not yet know how these actions might positively serve our clients and our service. Because I had not yet taken the steps to move in that direction, I had not had the opportunity to learn where it would lead us.

A box ticking approach could have been implemented. And it would have supported me getting through this part of the audit much faster next time. But the intent of the standard was my preoccupation.

So once again, the audit served its purpose. The daily grind continues, the small tasks to help a staff member or to finish a document. But something small has shifted and I feel like we are one step closer to where we need to be.

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Yet, at the same time, as humans, we enjoy certainty. We search for patterns and look for continuity. We are safe in the familiar.

So the uncertain times can seem much larger than they are, more unsettling in the moment. More liable to sudden corrections that tip the scale in the other direction.

This newsletter has been somewhat delayed as I’ve been finding myself sliding along an emotional and psychological scale while I navigated my work days. Slipping between action and aversion. Finding myself clinging tightly to some perception of control over my decisions. Feeling a little white-knuckled, asking myself: ‘what are you hanging onto here?’

I would wake up in the dead of night, my mind preoccupied with clients and work. The ethical challenges of yesterday and the uncertainty of today gnawing away at me. Asking myself if I was doing the ‘right’ thing. Wondering what else I could be doing that would ease the internal strain coursing through my body.

My clinical supervision agenda became a stream of consciousness. No longer a topic statement or areas to explore. Instead, small events piling onto the page. Words stated. Emotions in the moment, pinpointed in time.

Alongside the agenda, my doubt about the work was marked. ‘Nothing excites me’, I had written next to my supervision goal sheet. I couldn’t think of the future; I was preoccupied with a disordered and chaotic present.

In supervision with another colleague, I posed the question ‘is there a contagion of some sort here?’ Exploring the notion that some of the chaos and challenges faced by their client had been transmitted to the practitioner.

In that moment, I felt the power of this reflection. I sensed the contagion in my own practice. That the uncertainties and stress of my clients’ lives had somehow leapt over into mine.

The same strategies apply. The same cure of time and attention.

Stress is here, a tightness in the body. Racing thoughts. I am reacting not responding.

Integrity. Honesty.

Except for one standout moment that literally had me sinking in my seat, I was acting in alignment with my values. I felt myself moving closer to centre. Felt some of the stress start to ebb.

Respect. Freedom.

Was I acting in alignment with these values? There was definitely a crunch happening. Integrity and freedom do not always sit well, side by side. Was it my White privilege that somehow made it easier to make aligned choices? What does ‘respect’ look like from different perspectives (cultural, organisational, professional)?

“This is a difficult time.”

I have been doing this work long enough to know that difficult times come and go.

That remaining observant, and taking decisions to not act can be as valuable as choosing to act.

I could sense more clarity arise.

My values were speaking strongly, but these were mine. I was not in control of the decisions of others.

The following week, it was time to create another supervision agenda.

As I marked down the themes and the topics, I noticed how different this was to the previous week. How ordered and calm.

I had quietly removed myself from the inner turmoil and returned to equilibrium.

No sudden movements. No grand decisions. No irreparable breakdowns in relationship.

And this time, I noticed too that only a week had passed. How quickly I could re-focus. I was not bathing in the emotion, continuing to swirl and foment. I was not questioning my whole future, or my purpose. I was letting it be, waiting to see what arose next.

The reflection this week, in a nutshell: make space for clarity.

Allow the disturbed waters to settle. Decide then what is to be done next, for the next step may be to stand still a moment longer.

In each moment,

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By this, I mean that I can’t see space and have to keep scrolling through the days in order to set up a short meeting. Lunchtimes get eaten into, and I book meetings over my morning coffee to try and squeeze a little more out of the day.

I have standing appointments which remind me of clients I need to stay connected with, but who may not reach out for services. But when my diary becomes too full, I compromise on those internal commitments and I find myself noticing ‘it’s been weeks since I contacted X, I really must…’.

I’ve never run a strictly appointment-driven calendar, in which the client comes in and the session ends shortly after they leave when the notes are written up. Instead, the challenge is designing a work week that makes room for rising priorities while also keeping long term engagements on the boil. Balancing responsiveness with diligence to the needs of all the people I serve, in their infinite variety of needs.

Yet as my calendar spaces fill in, I start to sense what I am missing in the absence, in the white space between appointments or meetings. Those times when I sit at my desk, turn around and share a funny story with my co-worker. Find out about their weekend, or learn something about their family.

Making a cup of tea while I try to recall what is really most important, the knowledge of it lurking just around the edges while I’m jiggling the tea bag or opening the milk. Or seeing someone come unexpectedly to my office, and being happy for the opportunity to take a break instead of pressured to manage time.

A few weeks ago, I received an email from another service, inviting me to a meeting. I knew immediately it was something important, even though there was no context given. My diary had been a bit more open then, and I had a few blocks of mornings and afternoons to choose a time that worked for us all. I didn’t need to push the meeting out by weeks while I scrabbled for an available place. It felt right to make it as soon as I could.

When I turned up for that meeting, I commented to one of my staff that I felt like I used to when negotiating inter-governmental agreements in the public service. Two important and equally valid entities trying to find mutual ground, be heard, but also be clear about our position. I was no longer wearing high heels and carrying a leather bag, but the meeting had all the underlying solemnity I felt in those moments. An awareness that our reality was negotiated, and the responsibility for making it work was held by us all.

Later, after the seriousness of the meeting had passed, and I was in a follow up conversation, one of the attendees said to me: ‘when we invited you, we really weren’t sure you’d come’. I was a little surprised. ‘Of course I was going to come’, I said, ‘you had invited me’. To have ignored the email would have been inconsistent with my values; these apply to all aspects of my work, not just directly with or for my clients. Those values signal who I am; I may make mistakes when I drift, but they pull me back to centre.

The truth of this came home to me a week ago. I was talking to one of my staff about a challenging work situation I had found myself in. It felt like a battle of wills with this stakeholder and our entrenched positions were frustrating me. Then I heard my staff member say: ‘it sounds like this person is your client’. I stopped short and laughed. They were giving me my own advice back, something I had taught them months before.

When we encounter resistance, it is a practitioner issue.

I had said this when I counselled them about using the same approach they did with clients to all of their other work relationships. If we encounter resistance from a client, we meet this with compassion, curiousity and the careful application of practitioner skill. The same applies to resistance from others, I had said. What do you need to do in order to understand their resistance? What would you do if they were your client?

Just as I had said ‘yes’ immediately to the unknown, serious invitation, I was reminded that I needed to step in and enquire with curiosity with this person who felt like my opponent. Where are we? And where do we need to be?

I think the lack of space in my diary affects my capacity to draw upon this quality of enquiry. The space that allows me to be present with more compassion. To hear the complaint and not react. To receive the unexpected invitation, and immediately accept without hesitation. To notice the smallest of changes in the room, and to invite a discussion in the moments in between. To give attention to the room and whoever is within it.

When I make spaces in my diary, I am making time for the conversations I didn’t know that I needed to have until they were present before me.

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With the weather so dominant in my physical world, when I reflected on what is arising this week I find myself noticing the weathervane of my casework. Looking up, I can see how I am spinning with changing priorities, changing direction rapidly from moment to moment.

In the same way that there feels like a change in wind, so too can I feel a darkening of the skies. The weight of my cases forming an internal low pressure system, as noticeable to me as the clouds above.

One of the challenges of casework in human services is the constant pressure of finding the right balance in practitioner case load. Too much, and the ability to serve is diminished and your sense of self-efficacy plummets. Too little, and it feels like you are drifting through work but not anchored to anything meaningful.

The tricky bit is that as cases change in complexity, often for reasons well out of our control (or sometimes as a result of the work), the balance is easily disrupted.

“I have capacity,” comes the joyous cry!

Then, sometimes too soon afterwards, the alternate response.

“No, please, not me,” a tinge of anxiety present in the plea.

In my organisation, I have variously played with different systems and even visual representations to try and navigate this balance. Colour coding complex cases or clients at different stages of support. Factoring in the higher load of new clients, navigating the unknown alongside time building rapport. Light colours representing the ‘cruising along’ clients who only need a check in or a stakeholder seeking reassurance of your continued presence.

A dynamic caseload is hard to keep up with though, and the systems are only as effective as the data maintaining them. And when the pressure really starts to build, that’s when tracking the data and holding onto the system becomes harder. That ‘cruisey’ client suddenly has a crisis and needs you. Something completely unexpected happens and you find yourself tackling a new problem in an already complex situation. A family member who never reaches out just as a small window in your diary appears. You know each is a temporary blip or small thing to accommodate, but each one is stacking up, one on the other.

Last year, we added a thermometer to our fortnightly supervision agenda. A sliding scale representing the feeling of the practitioner about their caseload. Perhaps this is the closest reading to the true data point. A subjective question that can find a place on the scale: how does it feel right now?

However, what I find most useful to reflect on as the temperature rises is what impact this is all having on my mental state. How is my mood shifting in response, as the pressure changes and often for reasons well outside of my control? Am I being buffeted by the changes, losing my sense of direction; or, am I navigating my response? Am I forgetting that I am not responsible for everything, only the things on my plate? Is it all better if I can simply state my new truth:

“I’m so sorry, but I had to re-prioritise and I can’t do that as planned.”

With some light relief and a moment’s pause to reflect on what is really present, I might find that the storm is just a low pressure system and not the emerging cyclone it’s feeling in this moment. I don’t have to hunker down, and shelter in place.

I can walk outside even if it is raining. I can feel the rain on my skin, and see it for what it is.

I often find myself talking about ‘dual relationships’ when I talk about my work. I run into people I know from my work life (clients and stakeholders) everywhere. I have multiple overlapping contacts with people in my community both personally and professionally. Intersections through neighbours, my daughter’s school, my partner’s former colleagues and clients, my favourite cafe, fellow yogis or peloton buddies, or just downtown casual contacts.

The smaller the town, the more obvious it is that ‘dual relationships’ is mostly a theoretical construct. A construct that seems to meet the needs of professionals operating in large, dispersed urban settings where coming across a client outside of work is exceptional and/or unsettling.

When the settings are small enough for multiple relationships to occur naturally, what is actually happening as our professional and personal lives collide or glide becomes more obvious. Navigating these relationships ethically becomes less theoretical, and more relational. Individually crafted to respond to the relationships themselves, the depth of the crossover, and the personal meaning established between us.

To be clear, when I use the term ‘dual’ and ‘multiple’ relationships, I am not referring to relationships in which power is unequally wielded against another or vulnerability is exploited. These types of relationships really just need to be named for what they are: abusive, one human to another.

What I am referring to is the existence of multiple different ways of knowing and moving alongside a person, across multiple settings, including professional ones. It is relationally crafted, which means it responds to the social and cultural norms of that person. What may be appropriate for one client would not be appropriate for another. It really depends on the nature of what is occurring, and a complex interplay of factors that need to be individually negotiated each time.

This somewhat messy theory of multiple relationships came into sharper focus for me this past week when I tried to unpick the meaning of ‘friendship’ for a specific client through a cross-cultural lens. I was struck by how much the word ‘friend’ seemed accurate to describe the relationship between a client and professionals working with this client, however I was also conscious that I did not understand what that word might mean from the client’s cultural worldview (being different to my own).

What I was acutely conscious of, however, was that from my own professional context, my White western social worker brain kept on rejecting the word ‘friend’ as problematic. It conjured up other professional words such as ‘boundaries’ and ‘ethics’, implying problems that did not seem to be either present or (if so) concerning in the relationship.

Perhaps ‘professional friend’? I mused. Looking for a qualifier that would help explain the type of authentic and meaningful personal relationship that existed between the client and the person supporting them, while also acknowledging that one person was paid in the service of the other.

Again, I struggled with the term ‘professional friend’. It seemed to demean or diminish the quality of meaningful relationship that existed between the two people. It seemed to suggest that when the salaried connection ceased, then the relationship would also cease. Yet to me, this was not the case. Just as I had experienced personally, I felt sure that the quality of relationship would continue in some form, even if the monetary exchange was no longer present. It would likely be much less frequent, and may transform in meaning (just as ‘real’ friendships do) but the connection would remain authentically present. And still authentically unproblematic.

The problem seemed to be more that the use of the term ‘friend’ seemed to imply that no overlapping professional relationship could exist. Yet in this person’s cultural context, changing the relationship because of the professional nature seemed to be a White construct. I was turning around and around, chasing my own mental tail, trying to resolve it neatly in my mind.

Until I stopped.

It just is, I thought.

What is important is that there is no abuse or exploitation in this relationship. There is respect. There is an authentic connection. There is honesty between them.

There is recognition that the other is paid in service, and this is accepted and known as a fact between both.

How is this not ‘friendship’ as individually constructed between them? Shaped by the professional interaction, yes, but not defined by it. Moulded by the personal dimensions, but not defined by it.

It did not have to be boundaried to be safe. What was necessary was authenticity, honesty, and respect. As individually crafted, from one moment to the next. Both professional and personal, as may be the case from moment to moment, now and changing into the future.

And from that, all my own messy professional and personal relationships started to fall into their own messy alignment. An alignment guided by wisdom in relationship, changing and evolving, grounded in mutual respect.

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I don’t have the opportunity to travel there as much as would be ideal, however there are limits for funding and practical reasons. All of which means that I have to rely on phone calls, teams meetings and emails to sustain the work in-between visits. Again, not ideal, but necessary.

Five years ago, when I first started working in that small town, I was aware it was a long term commitment. I didn’t want to be a ‘fly by night’ practitioner who would start a service, build relationship and hopes, and then disappear. Even in the short time I’ve been providing services in this town, I have seen so many providers come and go. The town has the shadow of services past fading on the face of locked empty offices, waiting for new tenants to sign new leases.

When I run into clients in town, I sometimes remember the bright and energetic practitioner who first introduced me. I feel sad that she is no longer here to light up their day and track the rhythm of their life over the years since. She was a gregarious person who brought lively energy and easily built rapport with her clients. I used to slip in behind her wake, quietly smiling, reserved and observant. They genuinely loved seeing her face in town. She left years ago.

Yet, I am still here. Slipping into town. When I arrive I feel like I am adding another layer to the internal map of the town in my mind. Catching up with the same people who call that place home. Seeing their children who have moved from high school into their adult lives. Noticing the folder in the school classroom with the name of a student who graduated 3 years before, asking if his foster sister is still in town. Seeing the grandmother of a former client at the shop and recalling the time we celebrated a milestone birthday at the local RSL.

These are all the little threads. Threads that make a connection that goes deeper than the moment or the week. I know that I barely know the town or its residents, and I sometimes wish I could spend a good 6-12 months there just to start scraping the surface. Even with that, I’m sure it would just continue to go deeper and deeper, as all the networks of all the people became clearer over time.

These are the threads that sustain us. The small partnerships and friendships across community. The person who was once a teachers aide, who now runs the local cafe. The nurse who treated that head wound. The wife of the policeman who attended the scene. The builder who created the vision, bringing it to being. Every place where we gather creates these threads that connect us, and the longer we stay in the place the more we can see what is right here.

And what is right here is how hard it is to build trust. Even if rapport is built easily, and small wins occur in the blur of the new, it is harder to trust when the next magical practitioner presents. To believe that this time this practitioner will be here next year, and the next, to see it through. It makes the moment more transactional, more reserved, more tentative.

So now I try to promise less. To let time do its speaking for me. Staying in touch, checking in, turning up again. Investing in relationship, and the commitment of still being here. I may not achieve as much in the short term, but somehow it feels more important and meaningful in the long term.

It’s not all about what happens that changes from our support. Sometimes it’s about what happens when we continue to be there.

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A bit for fun, a dash of curiosity, and a pique of interest.

I wondered what would happen if I gave it a theoretical framework with enough detail about me to guide some mid range decision-making and behavioural change. By ‘mid range’ I mean that I’m not asking it for financial advice to re-organise my investments, I’m not disclosing myself as I would to a counsellor, and I’m not getting it to do something that a basic Google search could do.

So I loaded up a chat that I asked for all responses to be framed through an Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) lens. I gave it 3 personal ‘values’ to guide the responses, which were meaningful for me and relevant to the topic. And I gave it 2 paragraphs on the purpose of the chat and how I’d like it to assist me.

Then I let it go.

I started putting in my daily thoughts on the specific topic, unfiltered, whatever arose in the moment. It started feeding back my thoughts to me, reframed and reviewed within an ACT framework.

What I noticed immediately was … I liked it.

My reflections, coming back to me, fresh. Noticing my word choices, identifying patterns, highlighting choices that supported my values.

I would read the response and give a little internal shrug. The responses would push over potentially unhelpful ways of thinking and open up new perspectives consistent with my values.

I was still monitoring the chat at a meta-level. With some responses, I’d skip over parts that didn’t resonate. With some, I’d follow up with a specific comment instructing the machine to avoid this error. One recent example was that it told me I was making good progress and ‘doing better than before’. I promptly told the machine that it had ‘never received any history on my efforts’. In another case, I noticed the daily guidance was written as an instruction, and I reminded the AI that one of my values was ‘freedom’ and its response was not aligned. The machine offered a prompt apology, positive validation of my observation, and immediate course re-alignment.

Perhaps because I gave it a specific theoretical framework with guidance to be a daily resource, it also does not endlessly offer me alternatives. Instead it provides the reflection, integrating instructions I’ve asked it to do and the responses I’ve given it so far, and suggests our exchange is over pending the next check in.

What I have found most helpful in general has been the continued assistance to re-frame. The reframe is done in a gentle, positive, action-oriented way. Noticing when I am moving in the direction of my values. Building my capacity to observe myself, rather than become fused with my thoughts. Making space for alternative ways of thinking.

When I consider how useful this is for my work in human services with clients, I know I need to proceed with much greater caution. I can experiment with myself, but not in my client work. I can decide how much of myself I want to disclose, and hold this lightly, knowing that I am not in any form of crisis. I also have sufficient professional knowledge that I can identify theory ‘drift’ in the machine and give an explicit correction.

The greatest value I have found from AI to date has been ‘ideas generation’. Which leads me to wonder whether AI could be used within my work to inspire more ideas. To co-create with a client what the AI prompt might be and then evaluate together which of the responses most inspires a useful direction. Even as I write this, I feel this only could be done once we had created a strong therapeutic alliance together. One in which this kind of playfulness and lightness with a machine could arise.

In the meantime, however, I can continue to play. I could open another line of ‘chat’ with the machine that gives another theoretical framework and a new topic of enquiry. Or, I could take my AI bot’s advice to go to sleep (which was rather eloquently put to me as ‘words can wait, vitality can’t be banked for later’).

It’s not a machine, it’s a tool. That’s the re-frame for now.

In rest and play,

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It has taken me quite a few years to get to this lighter relationship with my work in human services.

There is something about the intersection of caring very much about what you’re doing, seeing the depth of someone’s need, and having a specific relationship to that need which makes it hard to not feel responsible when things are bad.

In my darker moments of the mind, I have even sometimes thought that it may be going poorly because of my involvement. At those times, even if someone were to say to me ‘it’s not your fault’, or ‘you have to look at this in context’, I would not have felt that subtle shift signally I believed their words. Instead, I would have seen their words more as a kind-hearted attempt to reassure me, rather than any form of truth.

Over time, however, I have begun to notice my own internal shift.

First, a deeper awareness that I am just a very small part of this picture. There really is only so much that my work can do. Both with the client and also with those around them.

The touchpoints I have with clients and their supporters is generally minuscule compared to the total number of minutes in their day. Even for the most intensive clients on my caseload, when I look at how much direct time I spend with them or those in their environment, at most it could be 2-3 hours on average across a week. That is a tiny amount of time, compared to all the people encountered in that week, from formal supports to random strangers to family members.

And even if I started working with a client a few years ago, this still often represents just the tiniest of timepoints on their overall life trajectory. So many people have gone before me, and will continue to go by while I am here. I am working at the end of that long line of people, the most significant of those being the people who raised or are raising my client and are their family.

I am a tiny piece of their puzzle

Next, no matter how amazing my work may be (and it certainly is not always like that!), I am still just one of many workers in their life. Regardless of what profession I come from, most if not all of my clients have a team of professionals in their life. I have one little pin on this board, and no matter how important it may seem to me, it is just one little place to rest.

If I seem to occupy a significant place, or the client themselves indicates that I do, I can also see how other people come along at key moments and the whole dynamic can change. From what someone says, to how it is delivered, to how it is received in the moment. Or someone might arrive on the scene with a specific item that just changes everything, from something as simple as a pack of cigarettes or a football T-shirt. Everyone’s world is so dynamic in the moment.

No one person or professional is the instrumental change-maker in any scenario. They may give key bits of information that set a direction, or change pace, but the client is the one who absorbs and keeps on moving. Keeps on integrating everything into the constantly evolving picture of their own life.

I am one of many in this picture

Even while I am holding these positions lightly, I also feel the significance of what I am doing. As I mentioned in supervision too:

Perhaps I am particularly lucky in that I do not provide any form of direct physical or medical intervention. But I do nevertheless provide advice or recommendations that may explain particular actions or lead people to look in my direction. Therefore, it is a responsibility that is deserving of time in supervision and a thorough, hard look at myself. A responsibility that has to be held, with respect and seriousness.

Just not held too tightly.

I hope this short reflection helps lift any heavy feelings on difficult days.

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I used to wish that I was the kind of person who just knew what they wanted to do when they grew up. Finish school, start study for that specific purpose, swim out into the ocean of possibility, getting better and better as I swam.

That isn’t me. I went to university unsure what subjects to choose. I chose the ones most familiar at the time. I finished the study and followed a friend into an interview process that became my first real job. Clutching my payslip like a sinking swimmer to a life ring, feeling relieved I’d managed to adult my way onto something that felt solid.

After a few years, when I had become used to the currents, I looked around. Noticed my passion for writing and decided to return to study. Unfortunately, a degree in creative writing seemed to suppress not release my creativity. I had tried to bottle something instead of enjoy it.

I switched jobs, trying on different roles for size, looking for the right fit. I ended up in a role that saw me on the road, travelling regional towns and adapting national policy to local contexts. Returning to my roots as a country girl, but feeling like I still had a finger on the national pulse.

It inspired me to take a risk and jump directly from the centre of policy to the centre of Australia. And with a further hop, step and a leap into remote communities in WA, I hadn’t felt that alive for a long time. When I considered how to be of value to remote and regional Australia, I found myself looking at the frontline professionals. Nurses, teachers and social workers. The course content for social work struck a chord and I set out on my new path.

Nearly twenty years after I had left school, I was starting to get closer to my passion. Closer to my values, shaped by what I had done already, but now swimming with more purposeful strokes.

At times, when I had my head down furiously swimming, I would wonder: what if I had started off here, where would I be now? But I could see also that my circuitous path was what made my work special.

Each shift in direction since then has been more like a compass review. Pausing briefly to assess, looking forward and striking out again. Continuously learning, re-calibrating.

As inevitably happens at this time of year, I find myself tuning into this internal compass. Evaluating what direction I am going in, whether it is aligned to my values and consistent with my own sense of purpose.

It is in looking back where I’ve come that I can start to be curious about where I am going. At each point, I have continued to make choices that bring me closer to what aligns.

Not all of us will know exactly what is the right fit for us in our professional lives, but if we continue to keep the question alive and filled with hope then we are still steering the ship. Whether it is a big course direction, or small turns to keep on track.

May this little message in a bottle today give pause for thought on your passion for life’s work, and the light that keeps it buoyed within you.

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Thank you to all my subscribers as I took a few weeks for a restful break. I love writing the weekly Substack; but when I came off the slide of my retreats and launched into the bustle of festivities and travels with family, it felt like the right time to take a short break from this weekly endeavour.

I’ve also decided to make this Substack free. For my wonderfully generous paid subscribers, thank you for your support. It really has meant the world to me to have this special sub-group of subscribers. For the ‘founding members’, I’ll reach out personally as I have a special thank you message for each of you.

And now to this week’s reflection.

Over the past few weeks, ‘community’ has been in my thoughts. Even writing the word conjures up an optimism that resides in our shared humanity.

Community: the response to grief in losing a fine man, who passed away just before Christmas. His community, and that of his loved ones, is wrapping themselves around his family.

Every day, more and more people are added to the group chat that is coordinating help for his partner and child. Meals have been made, delivered daily. Items loaned. Equipment built for a safe discharge. Friends jumping at the opportunity to help in whatever way possible, no matter how small. Over $65,000 (and counting) donated to ease the financial pressures.

He is in my thoughts, as I remember his smile and his gentle ways. So too is the thought that his partner and child must be comforted to know that they are so cared about and cared for by others. Even as they have lost one of the most important people in their world, the love of community for him and for them is flowing so strongly.

Community: the festival that saw in the new year with a minute’s silence, a ceremony for your wishes and dreams, and a future fund that plans ahead by 300 years.

Having only recently heard about Woodford Folk Festival, I didn’t really know what to expect. I imagined a music festival with camping. But immediately on arrival, I could feel this was some place special.

The volunteers were quirky and joyful. The road signs were fun. The campsites convivial. As the days progressed, more and more charming discoveries emerged. The letter delivery for random strangers who met a generic description on the envelope penned by a fellow festival member (‘to the young woman with the small tattoo’). More than music, there was something for everyone: yoga, meditation, arts, fashion, games, street theatre, cabaret, circus, or just a dip in the lake. And a fund to buy back the land and secure the festival for generations to come.

It was an ode to our common humanity, creativity, care for land and care for each other. A festival that celebrated who we are; that none of us are strangers, and all it takes is a conversation to begin the friendship.

Community: the patchwork of friends and family that make up our world and open their doors without hesitation. This holiday we had an unexpected vehicle breakdown and found ourselves at the door of an old school friend at 3am in the morning. He greeted our tow truck in the night. He spent hours supporting our communication and recovery by intermittent text when the gods of mobile range looked fondly upon our stranded party.

When we variously had to leave our possessions across multiple households along the east coast, depending on what was possible with hire cars and tow bars, I was touched by the generosity of all who had us to stay or loaned us some yard space. There was no end to the help available, once people knew we needed it.

Community: it is always here. Holding us together. It takes only a moment to look, and see what that it is here. To see it writ large upon the nation, when we collectively grieve for the Jewish families and community after the Bondi massacre and when we stand in solidarity with a Palestinian writer un-invited from their festival stage. To see it writ small upon our day, as we check in with a loved one or open our door to another.

As this newsletter reflects specifically for human services professionals, may this week’s reflection be about the community that serves you and your clients. Be assured, it is there. This year, look, ask, and be held.

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His death is not just a shock to all of us who knew, loved and admired him. It is a profound loss to humanity on this earth.

Some of the words I have used to describe him as I pass on this saddest of news to our friends in common:

With the shocking events that have occurred this past week on an individual and a national level, it makes clear the precious quality of every single moment.

None of us know what the future holds; we can only know that we have this present moment and we are responsible for how we live it.

My friend who passed away was one of those people who lived his present moments with profound love and respect for all. He would no doubt laugh self-deprecatingly to see this written about him, reminding me that he is simply human and therefore contains all of human frailty and failings. He would probably start quoting Hannah Arendt or some other philosopher to make his point.

Yet despite the impossibility of perfection, to my mind, the measure of his life was in how he lived his small moments. His willingness to always stop, listen deeply, and share a laugh. To show respect and compassion, even in the face of uncertainty or confusion. To seek understanding, no matter how difficult it seemed. To love those closest to him, with calm dedication and a steadfast loyalty. Taking quiet moments for himself, out in the countryside at sunrise, long legs striding forward.

When these good human are no longer walking among us, we can be guided still by how they walked with love and presence. How they walked, for themselves and their fellow human beings.

Love abides in its unconditioned presence. Love abides as tragic events unfolded in Sydney. Love abides as this good man’s time to walk has come to its close.

As we each process the week and what it has brought, consistent with the spirit of this man in all his professional and personal actions, I honour each human services professional who rushed in to help. Just as he had done for others, they moved straight into the heart of chaos, despair and grief to offer their hands and their hearts in service.

With profound gratitude to all those at the frontline of human disasters, and to this humble man for the light of a life well lived.

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As I mentioned in my previous post, I have become increasingly drawn to retreats as a way to manage the personal and professional impacts of my work in human services. For me, retreats bring the benefit of stepping outside of all that mindlessly drives my daily actions, and taking a compassionate look at my self and what I do.

In putting down the tasks that I normally engage in, I can see more clearly how the work I do (and the behaviours I have in response to the work) impacts my self, my immediate family and the quality of my practice.

In deep reflection this week, I have been alive to the energy that is within me to care for both me and also others around me. Humans are such complex organisms, with our incredible capacity to enact our will and needs upon self, others and the environment around us. With this capacity for directed action comes also a clear responsibility for mindful presence in each of those actions.

The concepts within Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) resonated strongly for me. Different parts of the framework of ACT connected to the need for flexibility, values-based action, awareness of self and context, and connection to the present moment.

I know I have much more work to do in being more fully connected to self, and specifically in my capacity to quickly ground to all that the present moment holds for me.

At one stage in the retreat, I became a little lost in my own jargon. In a kind way, one of my fellow attendees brought me back.

“Just really feel it, take it into your being to understand it from within, and then you will be able to use it in an authentic way with your clients.”

The truth of their words struck me.

The necessity for a lived experience of what we recommend for another - such that we would recommend it for ourselves in a similar situation - was evident.

When I can connect with my present moment, I can notice the big and the small picture of what is here. I can see familiar patterns, or feel my body responding to unconscious triggers. I can observe doubtful thoughts or discern the need for pause. I can speak from a place of kindness.

Returning to the awareness of the present moment is like going home to me.

With that quality of mindful presence, I bring a peaceful and loving response to situations I face at work (and at home). My actions are then the observable product of love and care in motion.

This practice does really ask that it be grounded in self. We are all deserving of the care and attention of our own loving presence.

As I move into another week of leave, I wish you many moments where you can feel your inner wisdom guide you.

Cheers

Sophie xx

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I have stepped away from my everyday world and into the world of illumination. A retreat called ‘satori’ that mines my own personal truth and will touch into a greater awareness of self and inner wisdom.

While having put my toe in the water of retreats for at least 22 years, it has only been in the past few years that I have come to them more often. At least once yearly now.

I have been compelled to come as a self protective measure. As the cumulative effect of the work in human services takes its toll.

I have become so enamoured of the process that I now offer a paid yearly retreat for any full time practitioner in my team when they have been in their role for 3 years. The stress is occupational, the effect is personal, the responsibility is shared.

Turning to self and filling my own cup first, unapologetically and with kindness, is my latest form of medicine. A way to stand quietly and notice the rage, the injustice, the fear and the passion. To stand quietly on the sidelines of myself and observe the turbulent waters, as well as the recurring patterns of calm. Knowing that these patterns can only be noticed when I stand long enough in one space to see.

The question I am working with on this retreat is ‘what is love?’

I come out next Thursday… when the water clears, I am looking with purpose to see what is revealed 💜✨

Go in peace,

Cheers

Sophie

There is something incredibly appealing about the idea of just leaving one life behind and commencing a whole new way of being. Disrupting all of the known to explore what lies within on an entirely different path. Uncovering new insights through a cataclysmic upheaval to the familiar.

I have wondered if the appeal of this kind of story for me is that it seems like a solution to the sorts of minor complexities that have been woven into the fabric of my life. The ones that layer up a life in such a way as to make it feel almost impossible to unpick.

Like the obligations of home ownership: the dreary weight of repairs and maintenance, mortgage payments, insurance premiums and bills. Or the practical challenges of managing a wardrobe that spans decades of fashion, various body shapes and aspirational activities that need clothing in the event of being actioned.

When I imagine removing myself from all of these trappings of a life, it seems to require more of me than I can muster in the moment. So instead I am weighted down by these small and big choices that corral me into my current existence.

In considering how this relates to the practice of human services, and the purpose of this weekly reflection as a practitioner, I am aware how my moments of seemingly weighty internal challenge are infused with privilege. The privilege of having enough resources to afford a mortgage. Of having a roof over my head and sufficient floor space to store all of my accumulated belongings. Of having the means to act upon my aspirations, even if I have not yet committed.

As I carry around my privilege, feeling it to be heavier than it is, I can begin to appreciate that I also have no way of truly empathising with the struggles of the people I serve. It requires an imaginative leap within me that is beyond my capacities.

I genuinely have no real insight into the experience of my clients. I may think I can touch upon their experience; I may even attempt to write about it or explain it to others when I’m advocating for their needs. But this is the sort of thinking that has me standing on a raised platform on a different game board.

All of this swirls around the two words:

This week, at a conference for leaders in the disability sector, I was struck by the talk of lived experience and the absence of those with disability in the room.

I was part of that room.

One eloquent speaker spoke directly to those present (if not in these words, something to this effect): ‘it’s a disgrace’. That the sector is behind many other fields in ensuring that the people they serve are the people who lead.

While I may know intellectually that lived experience educators and leaders are vital to good practice, I clearly am also currently lacking in my ability to translate this knowledge into practice. I am still very much at the earliest stage of ‘awareness’.

The same philosophical standpoint also applies to co-design principles in my work. I strive for integrity and transparency, but at times I make judgment calls that it may be ‘too hard’ to explain or ‘too difficult’ to communicate some concepts. I fall back then on familiar tools or interventions that I know are professionally defensible, but at the same time, have not co-created what is possible.

I know there remains a bias in my practice towards professional skills and knowledge. And this despite also knowing that I personally work in an area where ‘practice wisdom’ guides me as much, if not more, than any research or theory.

This week’s reflection is not intended to be a public self-flagellation. Rather, it is a call to action. If I am driven by a desire to move closer to a better service, I know this can be done by moving closer to the people I serve. To draw alongside, and to be guided by their wisdom.

And of the woman who left to cycle the world? The main advice she had for the hard times was: ‘just do the next thing’. Whatever that may be.

While my moments are not nearly as hard, the advice stands strong. I am acutely aware that the next thing is not known by me yet, but can be learned if I stop, put down all that I carry, and listen.

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The kind of transformation that unfolds like a crumpled piece of paper. The big unfolding, followed by more and more opening, re-straightening and smoothing. The creases of my way of being still imprinted. But, holding myself anew, able to see differently across the same internal landscape.

As the insights unfolded around me, alone in the company of others, held by the shared wisdom of each in the room, I gained a deeper understanding of why I was drawn to the work of human services. Why I had changed career mid-way, stepping onto a new path that would be my livelihood and therefore occupy a substantial chunk of my precious life’s time.

There is always a key person that has helped set a path of action. None of us make decisions in isolation of peers, mentors, friends or family. Whether distant or close, there is always someone. Thinking of my own life in general, key decisions were made by following a friend to university, a chance encounter with a charismatic consultant, and a word of encouragement from a peer.

For my professional career sidestep into human services, however, it was a social worker I had met in Warburton.

Rosalie was coming to the final stages of her career and had chosen a new role in a very remote community. She emanated a quiet wisdom that appealed to me. I felt safe in her presence. She could laugh at herself, and others, but always with kindness. And when she spoke of her clients and their complex lives, she was considered, thoughtful and caring. She could speak about what she saw or felt, no matter how risky or hard it might be. She enhanced any conversation she was in.

If that’s a ‘social worker’, then I think I want to be one.

What I particularly valued was that our conversations could shift to a deeper and more meaningful level with ease. She was practised in moving into the space of another, while holding herself there with care.

There is a subtle dance that occurs in the space of another. A need for safety that has to be quietly negotiated and built. Each step is precious and can signal the presence of absence of safety. When the stakes are high, it can be hard to step forward. Yet Rosalie would move in with a calm, sure-footed presence even while professing herself to be uncertain about what to do.

What I noticed is that she was particularly skilful at the boundary. The intersection point of her as a worker, in conversation with her ‘client’ (whoever it was at that point, for in some way, everyone seemed like a client).

While there is a lot of talk in social work, and human services more generally, about the importance of maintaining professional boundaries, it more often is a technical conversation about the basic ethics of respect for another. The work arises within the trust of a professional exchange, and brings with it a responsibility to be attuned to power, vulnerability and prejudice.

At a deeper level, however, boundaries must be crossed. The necessity of this is why teaching professional ethics is so important. For all human services work requires the boundary of interpersonal trust to be navigated. Without trust, there is no safety. Without safety, there is no connection.

The nature of the work speaks to the very nature of being.

We are each alone, trying to find our way. Yet at the same time, connected to others; bound in our path to the footfalls of those nearby. Constantly looking up from where we are, to see who we are with and then back to where we are heading. Shaped by what we have seen and experienced, by where we have chosen to go.

In that boundary, where one person in a role meets another, in order for the work to be meaningful and have impact, it requires a meeting. Where each person is able to retain their autonomy, yet also meet the other in a safe place.

The particular skills that get us to this point of meaningful engagement in our everyday practice are tiny. Subtle actions that signal the presence of safety. These are the skills that I am practicing, following in the footsteps of Rosalie.

Yet it also requires another practice. I am speaking in particular of holding. In my observation, both internally and of skilled practitioners, communicating safety in that engagement also requires that I am safe within myself. That I can stand, comfortable where I am, with who I am.

This is a practice of self that sits apart from the work, but informs the work. Without it, the authenticity required to cross the boundary towards another is difficult to achieve. It is the skilful holding of self that enables navigation of those boundaries; an awareness that perhaps self is moving too far, too fast or careening wildly off track. Or a self that needs to stand in awareness as the only grounded response to the crisis of another.

So, as I face another year and contemplate another retreat, I am hopeful that this practice of self will continue to develop my skills of being with another. And through this, deepen my professional practice.

Thank you to all those who have guided me to be here, and continue to support me as I learn more about holding space for myself and another.

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It was yet another flag to the collection I already was holding, signalling that I had more work to do.

I had already put my own burnout on the company’s risk register. I’d started to add a week long retreat into my annual breaks. I’d increased counselling support. I was taking steps to improve my physical health. I was making sure I took quarterly short breaks.

The responsibility to address what was showing up was clear. In a few short years, I had seen a marked reduction in my enjoyment of life. Smaller social circle. Less hobbies and interests. Less energy. Dominance of work-related thoughts.

One of the characteristics of burnout is also negativity or cynicism. This is not who I am. In fact, our company values include ‘hope’, which to my mind is an essential ingredient of success in human services. A philosophical attitude that is necessary to achieve positive change and sustain energy through the most difficult of times.

I noticed an increasing tendency to look outward, casting around for simple answers. Or, I found myself entertaining ideas of hopelessness. Dwelling on what was not, rather than what was.

So, holding my Copenhagen Burnout Inventory result this year, I could see that more was required. What I had done so far was positive, but it was clearly not enough. I was still too close to the edge.

I am not sure if I was consciously aware of this, but what I notice about my younger self of this year is that when I turned up the dial on my efforts, I had to move it up for me.

The motivation for change up until that point was less about the impact of work stress on me, and more about the benefit to others. Even as I was driving myself into the ground, I was pulling myself back out a concern for others: my team, my clients or my family.

The motivation continued to rest outside of my-self. As if my own wellbeing was not reason enough. As if, holding onto myself and looking after me was a project in selfishness that should be denied.

I wonder if one of the pulls towards human services is a cultural value on self-less care for others. Rarely, do we hear people say ‘look how well they care for themselves, I so admire that’. Instead, we valorise the givers, the humanitarians, those who put others before themselves. These are the good.

When I reflect on what is different at the latter stages of this year, the main things I have been doing have been more intensely focused on me. This weekly reflection, becoming increasingly more personal and less analytical as the year progresses. Even more breaks, not just as a perfunctory gesture towards burnout but just because I feel a calling to leave. An unapologetic absence, in recognition that I need more time.

I have also increased my clinical supervision to weekly (which admittedly was done for other reasons), but I wonder if this has added to the ‘me’ effect. Now, more frequently, I am just simply reflecting on me. In an unashamedly self-ish way, I plumb the depths of my response to practice. Even more time to wash out the effects of the work on me.

I have more to do. I still need to ask others to say ‘no’ on my behalf, because I find it too hard to do it myself. Some clients have snuck onto my caseload this year because of my ongoing inability to draw this line! I still have a personal physical wellbeing project that needs proper attention.

Yet, all this quiet focus on me has been beneficial. This quiet attention to my worth, without any reference to others. My need to be here for me, with me. An exploration of what I am like if completely alone. Which is enough.

And yes, I am never completely alone. None of us are. Yet our worth stands alone, completely independent. And as I move into this noticing, I have seen a subtle shift in equanimity back to my centre point. Less thoughts of what is not done, and more thoughts of ‘good enough’ or even ‘great’.

This week, I took the Professional Quality of Life Assessment (PROQOL). This is an assessment I’ve been tracking professionally for the past 6 years, approximately every 6 months. My scores had been slowly creeping up in burnout and down in compassion satisfaction. This week, the scores had turned. ‘Moderate’ returning to ‘low’.

Was it just an aberration? I returned to the Copenhagen Burnout Inventory I had done in February 2025. I was ‘below threshold’ on every sub-scale. So it’s no coincidence. The data is speaking the change.

A change so subtle as to barely be noticed other than in these quiet moments of self-reflection, yet so powerfully evident in the data. A return to the inherent value of me.

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