My clients are the ones doing the dirty work—the social workers, the detectives on sexual abuse cases. Their victims are the powerless, the vulnerable, the dependent. Together, we meet in the darkest recesses of humanity, working through the shock and sadness, reminding ourselves why we do this: to help the greater community.
I like working with people on the front lines. Their oxygen masks, once a safeguard against the smoke, have long since been discarded. Now, they sit rugged and worn, steeped in the disarray of it all. I plop down beside them, take a metaphorical drag off their cigarette (because, yuck), and pass it back as we sit in silence.
That silence is the heaviest part. The weight of the unfixable is deafening.
Sometimes, we lighten the load. One client and I spent twenty minutes talking about their child’s potty training—because sometimes, small, mundane victories are the only lifeline. With another, we unpacked the cultural power dynamics and gender inequalities that shaped their case.
We cope how we cope. For me, I’ve learned to accept that horrific things happen.
And as the ash nears the butt of the cigarette, I dust off their shoulders, pat them on the back, and say, “Go get ’em.”
And they do.
They walk back into the fire, into the cases that haunt their sleep, into the trenches where the work is endless and the victories are small. I watch them go, knowing I’ll see them again, knowing we’ll sit here again, knowing that sometimes, all I can do is offer a moment of stillness before they step back into the storm.
It’s not enough. It never is. But it matters.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 