-by Dr. Tim Grivois, Executive Director
When I think about the emotional toll that comes with helping others, I don’t immediately think of research or theory. I think about people—colleagues, friends, and the stories they’ve shared. Like the counselor who keeps a photo of a student who is always on their mind and heart, or the teacher who quietly tears up in the breakroom, wondering if they’re enough. These moments aren’t in the job description, but they’re part of the reality for anyone who chooses to care deeply in their work.
It’s in those moments that the ‘costs of caring’ start to reveal themselves: compassion fatigue, secondary traumatic stress, and burnout. Each is different, but they’re all connected by something deeper—moral injury. And when we talk about how to support those who care for others, we have to start there.
Compassion Fatigue: When Empathy Feels Like a Burden
Compassion fatigue isn’t about not caring. It’s about caring so much, for so long, that the weight of others’ pain starts to feel unbearable. It’s the educator who loves their students but dreads walking into the classroom. It’s the social worker who avoids picking up the phone because they already know what they’ll hear.
It doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it means you’ve given so much of yourself that there’s barely anything left.
What helps? Acknowledging that it’s okay to step back. Compassion fatigue thrives on silence and isolation, so opening up to colleagues, mentors, or even a therapist can begin to lighten the load.
Learn More: Compassion Fatigue Awareness Project
Secondary Traumatic Stress: Carrying Someone Else’s Trauma
If you’ve ever had someone share a story so heavy that it stayed with you long after, you’ve felt a glimpse of secondary traumatic stress (STS). For many professionals, this isn’t a one-time experience—it’s daily. It’s hearing about a student’s neglect, a client’s abuse, or a patient’s loss, and feeling the weight of their trauma as if it were your own.
One teacher I know described it as ‘feeling like I was breaking into pieces from stories that weren’t mine.’
STS isn’t about weakness—it’s about proximity to pain.
What helps? Learning how to recognize STS in yourself and seeking support early. Many organizations now provide STS training or peer support programs.
Learn More: The NCTSN Secondary Traumatic Stress Toolkit
Burnout: When the System Fails You
Burnout feels different. It’s less about a single story or moment and more about the relentless grind of a system that asks for everything and gives little in return. It’s the teacher working weekends to catch up on grading, the nurse doing mandatory overtime, or the counselor with a caseload that doubles every year.
It’s exhaustion, cynicism, and the sinking feeling that nothing you do is making a difference.
What helps? Burnout is systemic, so solutions need to be too. Advocating for manageable workloads, adequate resources, and meaningful recognition is essential—not just for individuals but for the organizations they serve.
Learn More: WHO Burnout Fact Sheet
Moral Injury: When Your Values Are at Odds with Reality
Moral injury is the invisible thread tying these experiences together. It’s the deep, painful wound that comes from being part of something you believe is wrong—or being unable to act in the way your values demand.
It’s the teacher forced to follow policies that harm students, the nurse who doesn’t have enough time to give every patient the care they deserve, or the counselor who runs out of resources before they run out of need.
One colleague described it as ‘the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix.’
Moral injury isn’t just about what you’ve done—it’s about what the system makes you do, or prevents you from doing.
What helps? Naming it. Talking about moral injury brings it into the light and helps those experiencing it understand that they aren’t broken—they’re human.
Learn More: Moral Injury Project
How It All Connects
Moral injury is the root, and compassion fatigue, STS, and burnout are the branches. They feed into each other, amplifying the impact. When someone experiences moral injury, they’re more likely to feel the exhaustion of compassion fatigue, the weight of secondary trauma, and the hopelessness of burnout.
To care for those who care, we have to start by addressing the moral injuries embedded in our systems.
Moving Forward Together
I’ve seen what happens when we ignore these costs of caring. People leave. They grow distant. They stop believing that their work matters. But I’ve also seen what happens when we acknowledge them, when we say, ‘This is hard, but you’re not alone.’
If you’re someone who’s felt these costs—whether in your classroom, your office, or your home—I hope you know that your care matters. Not just for the people you serve, but for the people who see and admire your courage every day.
Let’s start having these conversations. Let’s build systems that care for the caregivers. Because the costs of caring are real—but so is the power of being seen, valued, and supported.
Until we get there, I’ll keep doing what I can to walk with you. One step at a time.