When is it time to take a break from the profession?

My tolerance is a house without a roof. That’s exactly why I didn’t see it coming.

In this field, there are times we think we’re invincible. Great boundaries. Confident. Good self-care, so we can last.

Many times, that’s more than accurate.

For me, it was accurate — until I became a parent. And I didn’t know anything had changed until I felt it.

My dream job

At the time, I was a program manager in a community-based program, and I kept a caseload of my own. We worked with youth who were survivors of sexual exploitation and of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse.

It was my dream job. I’d wanted to do that work since I was probably fifteen or sixteen.

When you’re in this field, you hear and see things that people in other careers never do. Not because we’re special — because this is what we chose, for one reason or another. And over time, the work builds something in you: tolerance, compassion, and focus. Focus on the person in front of you, while never losing sight of your role.

Hard cases weren’t the exception. They were the job. I’ve sat with more of them than I can count — and I still do. I’m good at it.

The month it stopped working

In the year after my first child was born, I had a month I still think about.

One week, I did an intake with a teen whose abuse and neglect before the age of six were among the worst I’d ever read — a child who had been treated like less than an animal, in ways I still won’t put in writing. Years later, that early childhood was showing up in every part of their behavior.

A few weeks later, another intake: a teen whose sexual abuse started when they were very young, and who was still living out what had been done to them — in how they saw their body, their worth, and what they believed they were for.

A week after that, one of my own teens attempted suicide. I saw them the next day, and it was clear how close we had come to losing them. It was my first.

Before having kids, that month would have gone like this: boom, boom, boom. I got it. I know where we’re headed. Let’s roll. Let me be there.

That year, it wasn’t like that.

It felt heavy. It felt harder than usual on my soul. It took over my thoughts. It showed up in my nightmares. All of it.

The person who teaches it didn’t see it

Here’s the part that still humbles me: I teach vicarious trauma courses for staff. And it took me about a month to recognize it in myself.

When I finally sat with it, the connection was clear. I was a new parent — a part of my life, and a set of boundaries, I hadn’t explored yet as a provider. I assumed nothing had changed.

And in a way, I was right. The field didn’t change. The population didn’t change. The environment didn’t change.

I did. I changed.

My tolerance is very high. I often describe it as a house without a roof. That tolerance is a strength most days. That month, it was the thing that kept me from seeing the signs sooner.

“I gotta go”

I spent that weekend thinking, and crying a lot. Because I had to do the thing I tell everyone else to do: take a break when self-care stops working.

That Monday, I went to my supervisor and said:

“I gotta go. I’m no good to anyone until I resolve this. I have nothing to give right now, and I could do more harm than good.”

She said, “Understood.”

There was no convincing. No “take a sabbatical, use your PTO, push through a little longer.” Just: understood.

If you supervise people, that’s the lesson. A good supervisor who knows their people knows when it’s time to talk it out — and when it’s time to simply say yes.

What “break” actually meant

I pushed through another month to sort things out, took a week off, and then moved to court work. I needed to stay close to the work and far from it at the same time, and that opportunity matched what I needed.

For me, a break meant changing the environment and the role I was in — not the population. For you, it might mean the population too. There’s no wrong version.

And a break didn’t mean never coming back. It didn’t mean changing fields. It meant I needed space and time to process, reflect, rebuild, and figure out my own change — and then return.

After four or five months, I was ready. And I came back.

Today, I see that break as a turning point. If I hadn’t taken it, I would have left the field entirely — my dream job, the work I’d wanted since I was a teenager. I would have pushed until I started to hate what I do, and then I would have given it all up.

Signs your self-care isn’t working anymore

Self-care is meant to keep you steady. When it stops doing that, it’s information — not failure. Pay attention when:

• The work follows you home and doesn’t leave, even on your days off.
• It shows up in your sleep: nightmares, restless nights, waking up thinking about a case.
• The things that usually refill you stop working. The walk, the gym, the friend, the show — none of it lands anymore.
• You’re carrying cases you used to be able to put down.
• You dread going in in a way that feels different from an ordinary bad week.
• The people closest to you notice before you do.

If you need a break, what to say

You don’t need a perfect speech. You need an honest one. Something like:

“I’m not okay with the work right now, and I don’t want it to affect the people I serve. I need to talk about what my options are.”

Then ask about what’s available to you:

• PTO or vacation time — sometimes a short reset is enough.
• A leave of absence — HR can walk you through what you may qualify for.
• A lateral move — a different role, program, setting, or population, like I did.
• Your Employee Assistance Program (EAP) — free, confidential support many employers offer.

Nothing is too big or too small

For me, the change was becoming a parent. For you, it might be losing someone. Grief. A change in family dynamics. A move, a health issue, a relationship ending — or something nobody else would think twice about.

There’s nothing too big or too small. It’s about how you see it and feel it.

My hope is that this story becomes your own awareness compass — a way to check on yourself regardless of the role you’re in, the population you work with, or the kind of organization you work for.

All of those have only one thing in common: you.

And you matter.

If you’re struggling or having thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline), available 24/7.

If you’re pregnant or a new parent and struggling, call or text the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline at 1-833-TLC-MAMA (1-833-852-6262), free, confidential, and available 24/7 in English and Spanish.

I’m Sara Tudor, founder of Grow2Guide. I write about the parts of behavioral health work nobody explains at orientation.