Feel Like You're Drowning? A Compassion Fatigue Story from a Nonprofit Leader
It all started with the Grammy awards show on February 2, 2025. I was excited about watching a fun show with incredible musical performances. I really needed something light and joyful after working nonstop in disaster relief for more than four months. I couldn’t wait to see Chappell Roan and Lady Gaga hit the stage.
What I didn’t realize was that the entire show would be a big fundraiser for people impacted by the Los Angeles fires. Within 20 minutes of the opening act, I began to feel numb and angry. Don’t get me wrong – I was and still am heartbroken about the LA fires. Some of my dearest friends live there and lost homes. I attended Pepperdine University (located in Malibu) for my master’s degree. That’s why I couldn’t understand my strong emotional and mostly negative reaction.
Fairly quickly, I heard the dominant voice in my head saying, “It’s not fair. We still need help. They are getting major awards show coverage, and we are left with nothing.” I’m not proud to share these thoughts, but they were real. I couldn’t stand the thought of another group getting more attention when Western North Carolina still desperately needed it.
That was 3 months ago. Between the Grammys and now, I’ve realized that I’m dealing with a large amount of compassion fatigue. Compassion fatigue is prolonged exposure to other people’s trauma. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s been a REALLY hard season since Hurricane Helene while also leading the local food pantry in disaster relief. In this month’s newsletter, I’m sharing how I came to this diagnosis, why it’s so common among nonprofit leaders, and where I’m finding support.
I’m dedicating this to all the nonprofit leaders out there right now who just barely survived the COVID-19 pandemic and now face terrible challenges with funding.
September 27, 2024. That’s when it began. Hurricane Helene hit Western North Carolina in a way that no one expected. I started as the interim Executive Director at our local food pantry earlier that month. We opened the food pantry within 48 hours of the storm. Those first few days are hard to describe. Activities included:
· Marking people safe for government officials because so many people were missing
· Being the first live human someone saw after the storm
· Holding neighbors tightly while they cried from the destruction
· Meeting with government officials every morning to discuss food needs during search and rescue operations
· Laying down on the floor every night from complete exhaustion
For the first month, I worked 8am-10pm every single day. That’s not a pat on the back for me; it’s just reality. Fourteen-hour days were still not enough to help the next neighbor, return the donor phone call, or post about our supply needs. Every day was a new plan because the community food needs fluctuated so much.
After the first month, my teammate and I started trying to plan for November and December. We knew that families would struggle with the holidays, so we created new partnerships to fund and distribute 700 turkey meals in November and 500 gift cards in December. The life-threatening needs in our community and the global generosity toward our area kept me going.
In the new year, I saw many of the relief organizations leave our area. Winter settled in, and the frequent snows revealed a growing tragedy – the nature that many of us moved here to see was destroyed. The trees that brought us shade in the summer were gone. The roads with the healing scenic views were not open. The animals were quieter because there were less animals now.
While I worked my butt off during those first few months, I still had a self-care plan. For the first month, I listened to Lady Gaga’s Harlequin album while going to sleep every night. Many days my husband brought me lunch because he knew I would skip it. Many friends and colleagues reached out with financial support, beautiful encouragement, and donated supplies. I kept up with my regular manicure and pedicure schedule.
I kept telling myself that I was okay. In my head, I thought:
· I’ve got it great because I didn’t lose any family members, housing, or transportation.
· I’m good to go because our pantry building wasn’t damaged.
· I’m fine. So many people have it way worse than me.
· I’m doing well emotionally because I’m not physically tired.
· I’ve recorded a podcast and broadcast how well I’m doing. I can’t stop now.
These thoughts were my way of minimizing what I had experienced and continued to experience in the long-term recovery process. I heard the worst stories every day, so I couldn’t imagine being anything but hopeful and upbeat for the people around me. While that seemed to work for me, I also started feeling emotionally and physically numb.
The numbness would vacillate with anger in January-February. Watching the Grammys show was a sign, but I still didn’t know I was fine until another event.
I attended a business forum hosted by our local chamber of commerce. In this session, we heard from representatives of our NC members of Congress, the NC governor’s office, and our local county commissioners. At this point, I was already frustrated with the lack of disaster relief funds coming to Western North Carolina.
Now I came to this event with questions about government funding for food supplies and farmer support in our food systems. I felt like the audience understood what I was sharing, but the federal representatives didn’t even understand what federal food programs had been cut. And they shared that disaster relief money approved in December 2024 wouldn’t be here until Fall 2025 (at the earliest). Y’all, I wanted to scream and yell and bang my head up against a wall. I left angry, frustrated, and deflated.
That’s when I felt like the air of my hopeful balloon left, and I moved into a zombie-like state. I woke up each morning with dread. I went to work with the momentum of helping people while also feeling totally helpless. I came home each night and cried or screamed or both at the dumpster fire I was living in.
In those next four weeks, I crashed hard. Our client volume increased by 40% while our supply chain was reduced by 20% through government funding cuts and freezing. My employees were experiencing their own levels of mental unwellness, which they shared with me. And we were in the middle of hiring a new executive director. I felt like I couldn't stop. Otherwise, my world (and my mission, so I thought) would fall apart.
Finally, I was miserable and scared enough for myself that I shared my deepest feelings with my husband. He already knew that I was struggling and couldn't figure out how to help me because I wouldn't let him. I felt better knowing that he knew, but the world crumbled beneath me again. The very next day one of my kids shared that he was deeply struggling with his mental health. My need for space and healing was consumed by helping him immediately. It was another emergency.
I would love to say that I had all the answers here, but I didn't. I was physically and emotionally frozen. I needed help, and now I needed to help my son now. Where could I draw the strength when I was on my last thread of sanity?
Thankfully, my teenager gave us the steps to start. He asked me very honestly what I needed to ask myself, "Mom, will people in Avery County still get fed if you take a few days off?" Of course, I sobbed. "You are what's most important to me," I said to him. And my heart broke. Where had I lost the connection to supporting my child while also supporting and fighting for my community? His only requests were time away and no storm or work talk.
My husband, son, and I took the next 10 days to fully detach from Western North Carolina. It was really hard to step away because so much was happening at work, and our pantry felt understaffed. While we were out of town, I felt physically ill every day at being away from our community. I felt guilty for needing a break when so many others were hurting. My physical and emotional reactions were revealing. For once, I finally listened to my body.
In the last month, it's been so hard to admit my need for help and accept help from others. I've had to be more vulnerable than I wanted and ask for what I really needed. That has included a family beach vacation - the first true vacation that I've taken since the storm.
Everyone's journey with compassion fatigue is different. My symptoms were anger, numbness, cynicism, and an inability to stop. Additionally, my compassion fatigue leaked into my most precious relationships as being too focused on the ones outside of my home than the ones inside my heart. I don't know that recovery looks like for you, but here's what has helped me.
Recovering my morning routine including short meditations.
Reducing my workload including not working on the weekends.
Taking more vacation.
Staying physically active.
Spending more time with friends and family in-person.
Going back into therapy.
I'd love to tell you that I am healed through an easy 3-step process, but that's a lie. I'm still struggling and probably will be for a few months. I've had to let go of so much to let help in. It's not easy, but I am finding hope again.
It's fitting that May is Mental Health Awareness Month in the United States. I am just one nonprofit leader who is passionately helping her community. There are millions of us around the country fighting compassion fatigue right now. Not everyone has survived a natural disaster, but almost all of us are facing the uphill battle of reduced funding and increased need. The daily barrage of attacks on nonprofits is a lot to carry when you are a leader. Take care of yourself, my friends.
"Don't let anyone rob you of hope." Pope Francis
I hope that you enjoyed The Fully Human | Resources Newsletter! I share a lot, so let's connect:
Follow Loftis Partners on LinkedIn, Instagram, and YouTube
Explore working with Loftis Partners
Join the Pay Equity Collective
Buy my book, The Pay Equity Guide for Nonprofit Organizations