Walking Through the Fire Together
By Dr. Ashleigh Clarke
This reflection is adapted from a longer essay titled Leadership Without Armor: How to Lead a Team of Empaths While the World Burns Around Us, which explores the shared experience of leading and belonging to empathic teams caring for others during times of collective stress and uncertainty. The full piece expands on themes of empathy, leadership, and staying human in difficult moments. Readers interested in accessing the complete essay are welcome to contact the author.
I didn’t write this in the moment.
I wrote it a couple of days later, sitting with what unfolded during a meeting at work on Friday, watching the news on Saturday, and feeling a pull to check in with the people I work alongside. Not because I had answers, but because something had shifted and I didn’t want to pretend it hadn’t.
On Friday morning, I facilitated our weekly meeting for early-career clinicians. It’s an intentionally unstructured space that rotates facilitation and allows people at different stages of training and licensure to bring whatever feels most present for them. That particular Friday, we met virtually so people could stay warm during subzero temperatures.
Someone opened by saying, “It was a long week.”
I did what therapists do and gently invited more, if they felt comfortable. What followed wasn’t dramatic, but it was deeply shared. Clinicians began talking about what it has been like to sit with clients who are scared. Not in an abstract way, but in ways that feel immediate and personal. Others spoke about the quieter weight of doing this work while also carrying their own histories, identities, and sense of safety in the world.
What emerged wasn’t a list of stressors. It was a shared understanding that this work doesn’t live outside of who we are. Some kinds of strain aren’t just professional. They’re personal.
What stayed with me most was the recognition that clinicians were holding other people’s fear while actively living inside their own. And the work didn’t pause just because the world felt unsafe.
In this field, the work reflects more than what we do. It reflects what we value. Many people are drawn to this work because of care, justice, dignity, and healing. Over time, those values stop being abstract. They shape how we understand ourselves.
That’s why “just leave it at work” often misses the mark for empathic people. The weight doesn’t follow us home because we lack boundaries. It follows us because the work matters.
The fire hasn’t always been this big.
As clinicians, we’re trained to walk with people through fires that aren’t our own. We learn how to enter those spaces with care and how to step back out again so we can keep showing up. Those fires are real, but they’re bounded.
This feels different.
This fire isn’t contained to the therapy room. It follows us into our homes and our bodies. It’s in the news, in our communities, and in the questions people are asking out loud and quietly to themselves.
It’s ambient. It’s everywhere. And it’s ours too.
Life doesn’t pause because of that. We still show up to sessions. We still care for others. And when the workday ends, we keep living. We do the laundry. We make dinner. We take the dog for a walk.
We keep walking.
Not because it’s easy, but because connection matters. Because continuing to live alongside continuing to care is part of how we stay human while moving through something real.
On Saturday, that sense of unsafety expanded. What had been named quietly the day before suddenly felt closer and harder to step around. It wasn’t abstract. It was present. Immediate.
What struck me wasn’t shock. It was recognition.
I saw the face of a young early-career psychologist who had spoken honestly on Friday about anger, a pull to take action, and uncertainty about how to do so safely. On Saturday, I saw him reflected in Alex Preti, a man committed to the care and healing of others, who likely carried similar questions and was murdered for taking action against injustice.
The connection wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. And it landed deeply.
What we had been talking about wasn’t anxiety or worst-case thinking. It was an accurate reading of the world as it’s being experienced.
After Saturday, I didn’t want to let the moment pass in silence.
I checked in with the team. Not with answers or expectations. Just a message that said: I see you. I’m thinking about you. Support is available in whatever form you need.
I shared a poem about how to be a person in the world. Not as instruction, but as permission. Permission to keep living while still caring. To hold sorrow and still take the dog for a walk. To remember that being human doesn’t disqualify us from caring for others.
We had talked earlier about joy, about how during other moments of collective crisis people found ways to gather and stay connected even while the world was burning. Not as denial, but as survival.
Joy and community aren’t distractions from this work. They’re what make it sustainable.
I’m still figuring this out. I’m new to leading. I don’t have a polished philosophy or clear answers.
What I do have is a growing sense that staying human, staying connected, and refusing to harden might matter more than getting it exactly right.
For now, this is where I am. Walking. Reflecting. Doing the laundry. Taking the dog out. Showing up. Trying to stay human while helping others do the same.
That feels like a place worth starting.
We invite readers to reflect on how they are finding moments of connection, meaning, or humanity in their own lives during uncertain times. Whether through community, creativity, care for others, or small daily rituals, these moments matter. If you feel comfortable, we welcome you to share what has helped you stay grounded and connected.
If this reflection brings up difficult emotions or concerns for you or someone you love, support is available. Below are local and national crisis resources for immediate help and ongoing support.
FOR IMMEDIATE MENTAL HEALTH ASSISTANCE
Boys Town National Hotline 800-448-3000
Honu Home Warmline 402-975-2032
Suicide and Crisis Lifeline 988
