When Empathy Runs Dry

I need to speak.

To speak about the reality of those who live day in and day out alongside people experiencing mental health challenges.

This issue affects a significant portion of the population: according to Health Canada, one in five Canadians will personally experience a mental illness in their lifetime. And yet, we still speak far too little about those who support, who accompany, who remain standing while someone else is faltering.

Let’s be clear from the outset: I am not seeking to minimize the suffering of people living with mental health issues, nor am I looking for pity. Their pain is very real, even when it remains invisible. I simply wish to share the perspective of someone who, more often than not, finds herself acting as a mobile crisis unit… and who, today, is running on empty.

As I write these words, I feel drained. Emotionally. Physically, too. (Having my body remind me of its limits certainly doesn’t help.) What was meant to be a time of rest turned into a series of unexpected twists. I had placed many hopes in this pause. I needed it.

But life had other plans.

I was there for others. And, in a way, life did things well: I was available—perhaps more than others—to offer support. The other side of that reality is the feeling of being completely depleted, without having had the space needed to truly recover. Batteries drained. Certainly not recharged the way I had hoped.

When Supporting Becomes Exhausting

I’ve learned that work is not always the source of exhaustion. Having already brushed up against professional burnout, I thought I knew the signs and causes well. And yet, our personal lives can also become fertile ground for wear and tear.

When going to work starts to feel like a “break,” a refuge from personal life, that may be an early warning sign. We often speak then of caregiver burnout. This phenomenon is well known among health care professionals—therapists, nurses—but it also affects those who, sometimes without realizing it, take on the role of emotional pillar in their personal circles. Those who support a loved one who is unwell. Those who are always trying to help.

I am that person.The one who is always there.

Often, I feel as though I’m treated like luggage. It’s assumed I’ll be there. That things can be dropped off without asking whether I have the time, the energy, or the capacity to carry them. It’s simply expected.

I am perceived as the strong one. The one who switches into solution mode, who stays calm, rational, objective. At least, that’s how I experience my role with many people around me. What is often forgotten—or perhaps ignored—is that I am neither a therapist nor a psychologist. I am not always equipped to handle complex situations that go beyond my lived experience or knowledge. I am human. And sometimes, I simply no longer have the emotional, mental, or physical resources to support others.

The Fatigue of the One Who Holds It Together

My therapist often offers me an exercise: to imagine a small fairy, wand in hand, capable of changing whatever I wish in my life. Right now, more than anything, I would wish to regain my empathy… and to be met with respect.

When our capacities are stretched to their limits, the glass of empathy empties. And this has a real impact on our relationships. I’ve seen myself unable to offer the support I wanted to give to someone close to me going through a traumatic situation. I’ve caught myself responding to my family with a harder, more detached attitude—a “suck it up, buttercup”—simply because my glass was empty. I’ve also withdrawn, seeking a mental pause.

A difficult reality quietly settles in when you are the one who supports others, and it is harmful for everyone involved. Empathy wanes. Coping strategies become unhelpful. We begin to question our life choices. We distance ourselves from others, out of despair.

And we feel alone.Very alone.

I know it’s essential to set boundaries, to assert oneself in order to avoid resentment and helplessness. But when danger feels real and immediate, we don’t always allow ourselves that luxury. At least, I don’t.

Returning to What Matters

Despite everything I’ve shared here about the need for empathy, I want to be clear: I am not seeking it from others. This is work that belongs to me.

It begins with caring for the fundamental needs of the human being: hydration, nourishment, sleep, and social connection. It also involves engaging in activities that restore energy or offer release—like writing.

We often underestimate how essential these basic needs truly are. And yet, when we look at certain tactics of dehumanization used in extreme contexts, these are precisely the elements that are stripped away first: water, food, sleep, human contact. The outcome is undeniable.

And yet, how many of us do exactly this to ourselves, day after day?

I sincerely hope this text can open a space for dialogue around empathy and the real impact of mental health challenges—for everyone involved, whether they live the suffering from within or accompany, support, and hold on as best they can. Pain exists on all sides, often silent, sometimes invisible, and it deserves to be named so that we can exchange, learn from one another, and above all, remember that no one should have to carry this alone.

In my professional life, I often speak about the importance of meeting people where they are, of trying to understand what they are going through in that precise moment of their lives, of welcoming what is shared without judgment, and of building a bridge to our own lived experiences to better grasp the emotions of another. It is in this spirit that I invite you to take a moment to recognize a personal experience that stirred emotions similar to those shared here, and to share it if you feel inclined. Perhaps together, through this mutual recognition, we can nurture a more human, more respectful, and more deeply empathetic dialogue.

Standing strong, even when energy runs low.