Burnout in the Mental Health Professions
Advocating for your importance.
In the mental health field, the term “burnout” is one we can all relate to, yet somehow I find it losing its potency. We scroll past articles titled “Stop Burnout” or “Why Self-Care Matters” on social media, nodding in vague agreement before simply moving on. While we recognize the truth behind these statements, we smirk in response because it seems like burnout is inevitable in this field.
As mental health professionals, we know we’re pouring ourselves into the lives of our clients, and for the most part, we’re okay with it. We are okay with it until we find ourselves breaking down after a rough day. We're okay with it until we’re crying on the way to work. We are okay with it till we zone out while we are with clients or staring at the clock, yearning for the day to end. To put it simply, we are okay—until we are not. But we justify this… It’s part of the gig we signed up for, right? It’s why we chose this path: to guide, to listen, to ease others’ pain with our empathy, even if that means sacrificing our own mental well-being in the meantime, right? This idea is precisely why burnout in our field is so different- and so dangerous!
Most mental health professionals enter the field driven by a deep sense of empathy—a desire to understand, support, and alleviate others’ suffering. Burnout, however, zaps this empathy, leaving us feeling detached, irritable, or unable to connect with others. This emotional disconnection feels like a betrayal because it’s as if our own compassion, the very trait that defines our work and passion, has turned against us.
Burnout in mental health is more than just long hours or a heavy caseload (which are significant issues in themselves); it’s about the unique emotional labor of being a person who cares. We’re not just managing tasks—we’re holding space for trauma, grief, and hope, often at the expense of our own emotional reserves. This isn’t your standard office job burnout. The compassion fatigue, vicarious trauma, and constant demand to be “on” emotionally set us apart. Society often reinforces this, subtly implying that because we care, we should happily hand over our energy in a neatly wrapped, cheerful package, without asking for much in return.
The Trap of Self-Sacrifice
There’s an unspoken expectation that mental health professionals should thrive on self-sacrifice. After all, we’re the empathetic ones, the ones who chose to care. But this mindset is a trap. It assumes our compassion is infinite, that we can endlessly give without replenishing ourselves. It ignores the reality that the very traits that make us exceptional—empathy, sensitivity, and a drive to help—are the same traits that make us carry the weight of our work the heaviest.
Protecting Our Empaths
The mental health field attracts the most empathetic and caring individuals—clinicians who feel deeply, listen intently, and dedicate themselves to alleviating others’ pain. These are the souls who enter therapy rooms, schools, crisis centers, and community clinics with a mission to make a difference, driven by a profound desire to connect and heal. Yet, this very empathy—our greatest strength—makes us uniquely vulnerable to burnout. The emotional labor of holding space for trauma, grief, and despair, often while navigating heavy caseloads or unpaid tasks, can erode their reserves. If we don’t protect these individuals, we risk losing them to apathy, detachment, or emotional exhaustion, dimming the spark that fuels their work.
Apathy is not the goal; it’s the enemy. When clinicians become hardened or disengaged to cope with the relentless demands of their role, the field loses its heart. We don’t want professionals who numb themselves to survive, delivering mechanical care devoid of warmth. We need clinicians who remain compassionate, engaged, and hopeful—not because they’re forced to endure, but because they’re supported to thrive. This requires a fundamental shift in how we value and sustain the mental health workforce, recognizing that their empathy is a finite resource that must be nurtured, not exploited.
Caring doesn’t mean free or little compensation.
If you’ve seen Ted Lasso, you might remember a powerful moment between Ted and Dr. Sharon Fieldstone, the team’s therapist. Ted, skeptical of therapy, suggests that because Sharon is paid to listen, she doesn’t truly care.
Dr. Fieldstone: I was quite offended by what you said about my profession...that just ‘cause a therapist is being paid, they don’t actually care. Let me ask you something, Ted. Would you coach for free?
Ted: Yeah, I would.
Dr. Fieldstone: But do you?
Ted: No, ma’am.
Dr. Fieldstone: And yet you care about your players, right?
Ted: Yes, ma’am.
Dr. Fieldstone: And why would you assume it’s not the same for me?
This exchange cuts to the heart of a harmful stereotype: that caring professions should demand less compensation or personal well-being because it’s a helping field.
Being paid doesn’t diminish our care—it enables us to sustain it. Yet, the expectation to give endlessly without adequate support or resources can erode even the most dedicated clinician’s passion.’
A Field Worth Saving
Burnout in mental health isn’t an inevitable rite of passage—it’s a clarion call to reimagine how we support the professionals who hold space for others’ pain. The empathetic souls drawn to this field are its lifeblood, yet their compassion makes them vulnerable to exhaustion, apathy, or detachment. We cannot let their empathy-the spark that heals—be betrayed by a system that demands endless giving.
A Duck’s Therapist is on a mission to support mental health professionals. Reach out at aduckstherapist@gmail.com to share your thoughts on creating lasting change. Together, we can create a mental health field where empathy endures.
