Emotional Labor? When Ministry Weighs Heavy: A Letter to Those Who Hold the Line

By Cindy Finch, LCSW

Recently, I wrote to two of our pastors who were trying to steady the hearts of our congregation after another pastor in the local community ended his life by suicide. Sadness and disbelief hung thick in the air. Their job is so hard. Their hearts were hurting, and the weight of tending to others in crisis was crushing. I followed up—not with answers, but with a hand on the shoulder. Just to say: “I see you.” Because sometimes that’s the only thing that helps.

But this letter isn’t just for them. It’s for all of us who hold space for others—when our own hearts are threadbare. If that’s you, read on.

My Dear Friends,

The work you do is sacred. It’s gritty. It’s brave. And it is exhausting in ways that most people will never understand.

As counselors and pastors, we engage in a kind of invisible work that doesn’t show up on spreadsheets or balance sheets. It’s called emotional labor—the act of holding space for others, of absorbing and metabolizing pain so others can keep going.

I first heard this term years ago when I was at the frayed edges of myself. A kind, tenderhearted friend had stopped by to help me clean out my garage. As we sifted through dusty bins and old memories, I shared how heavy my caseload had become—especially with those clients who were battling relentless thoughts of ending their lives.

He paused mid-sorting, holding a weathered cardboard box labeled “Christmas Lights”—the tangled kind with the broken bulbs—and said: “You know, I’ve heard that just three hours of the kind of work you do is equal to six to eight hours of physical labor.”

I don’t know where he got his numbers. But I didn’t care. It landed like truth.

Something in me exhaled. I felt seen. Not pitied. Not praised. Just understood. And that made all the difference. Because I was in a season where I felt like I was reaching out to catch people who were dangling over the edge, day after day. And while I’m trained for that, it wears on you. It chips at your reserves. It leaves you aching in places no one can see.

His words stitched something back together in me. They reminded me that this work—your work—matters. That holding people’s pain isn’t weakness. It’s strength in its most tender form. And the cost is real.

So for both of you—and for all the shepherds, chaplains, pastors, therapists, social workers, and sacred-space-holders out there:

I see you.

I see the invisible ways you carry others. I see the tears you don’t have time to cry. I see the weariness that lives beneath your smile. I see the strength it takes to show up again and again when your own soul feels scraped thin.

And I want to say this clearly:

You are not alone.

If no one has told you lately, let it be me.

Your presence is holy.
Your work is sacred.
And you matter.

So here’s a gentle question to carry into the rest of your week:
When was the last time you allowed yourself to be the one who was held?

With love and solidarity,

Cindy

P.S. If you’re in a hard season, consider talking with someone you trust—or taking one small step toward your own care today. Even Jesus needed rest.