Why Don’t I Feel It Anymore? The Quiet Grief of Emotional Numbness in Healers
What Nobody Talks About: Emotional Numbness in Healers
You might not even remember what you were searching for when you found this.
Maybe it started with a vague sense of unease…
Perhaps a desperate search to answer:
- Why you constantly feel numb while helping others
- If you are still a good practitioner if you don’t feel anything anymore.
- Is emotional numbness in healers even real?
You weren’t looking for tips.
You were looking for proof.
Proof that you’re not the only one.
That this feeling you are holding has a name.
Evidence that you’re not lazy, dramatic, or broken—just carrying too much, for too long, without space to set it down.
This message isn’t for the clout chasers.
It’s not for the ones who became healers to earn gold stars from mom, dad, or their old pain.
This is for you.
The one who quietly shows up.
The one who keeps holding space, even when your own is shrinking.
Yes, you. The one who can’t remember the last time you really felt present—and not just performing it.
Here’s something no one talks about:
When you become a therapist, coach, guide, or helper… it’s not just a job.
It’s a coronation.
A lifetime appointment to emotional responsibility.
And you didn’t think much of it at first.
Maybe it paid well.
Maybe it gave you purpose.
But no one warned you what it would do to your soul—
how it would twist you into someone who listens so well, you forgot how to speak for yourself.
Heavy is the Head that Bears the Crown of Emotional Safety
Nobody told you that helping others would hurt you in the process.
And nobody can deny that it does something to you—not just emotionally and physically, but spiritually as well.
Maybe you are a doctor and think, “If I say these things, they will take away my license.”
Maybe you are a therapist and fear, “People look to me for advice, not the other way around.”
Or perhaps the hardest part of it all: Waking up and realizing that you are no longer numbing because it is performative—it is the only way to survive this industry.
Heavy indeed is the head that bears the crown of emotional safety for everyone except you.
So, if that is you, I am here for you. We are going to walk this carefully, slowly, and with compassion. Just landing here is an achievement. So, let’s go there and discuss this.
🗂 What We’ll Explore Together
The Confession: I Didn’t Mean to Go Numb
I know all about being emotionally numb as a healer. I learned it young.
I grew up around volatile women. I remember one Friday night in particular—I was 15. My dad had left me alone with his girlfriend Sandra, a mean-spirited alcoholic. She chain-smoked through the night while Phyllis Hyman played in the background, telling me over and over how much of a bastard my father was.
Her favorite track? “Living in Confusion.”
At the time, I didn’t think much of it—just background noise. But now I know better. That wasn’t just her favorite song. That was her blueprint. And in that smoke-filled living room, I started breathing it in too.
I didn’t understand it then, but that night taught me something that would echo into adulthood: how to stay quiet, how to confuse chaos with closeness—and how to feel emotionally responsible for other people’s pain.
That’s when I discovered what would later be called a “gift.”
The ability to shut up, sit still, and listen.
Not because I was wise.
Because I didn’t know how else to survive.
Your story may be different—but you know this part:
Sitting quietly.
Taking mental notes.
Absorbing emotion like a sponge no one wrings out.
And no, you didn’t wake up one day and decide to go numb.
It started when your instructors taught you to “hold space.”
Next, the clients or patients who demanded to be seen and heard.
Finally, the system rewarded you for never breaking down, never being too much, never needing anything.
You feared the negative Yelp review.
The whisper thread on Reddit.
The board complaint.
So you adapted. You got good. You stayed silent.
Until silence became your resting state.
That’s the part no one tells you about emotional numbness in healers:
It often comes from care—not callousness.
From staying too soft for too long in a world that only values the performance of empathy.
What Nobody Talks About: Emotional Numbness in Healers
I’ve been in the healing industry for almost 15 years. And I’ve seen a lot. So let me say this plainly:
Emotional detachment in therapists, coaches, clergy, and caregivers isn’t rare.
It’s just rarely admitted.
We’re taught to be the strong ones. The grounded ones. The emotionally fluent ones.
But what happens when your heart starts checking out, and you still have to show up?
You start whispering to yourself:
“Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Perhaps it is time to take a vacation.”
“This was just a hard season.”
But what you’re really saying is: I don’t feel like myself anymore. And I don’t know if it’s safe to say that out loud.
I went online and started researching support systems. I found things like PeerRxMed for medical professionals—programs built to help doctors facing compassion fatigue.
And I thought: That’s great for them.
But what about the rest of us?
What about the healers with no abbreviations after their name?
The pastors. The coaches. The therapists running their own solo practice.
The ones who never got trained in what to do when emotional numbness becomes the default.
One story hit me especially hard. It was from Dr. Kara Pepper, an internal medicine physician who wrote:
“There’s no RVU compensation for bereavement. For seeking help. For modeling self-care. In a culture where productivity is rewarded and self-sacrifice is praised, we must give margin for the emotional work required not just to care for others—but to care for ourselves.”Numb: How I survived as…
Yes. That.
There is no bonus for grieving.
No space on your timesheet for being human.
And that’s why no one talks about this.
Because the moment you do, you risk being seen as unstable, unreliable, “not fit for service.”
But here’s the thing no one says out loud:
What if the breaking is quiet?
What if it happens not in some dramatic collapse—but in how you stop crying at client stories, stop laughing at things that used to move you, stop feeling anything except tired?
That’s the breaking I’m talking about.
That’s the kind of emotional erosion that deserves attention—and tenderness.
Quiet Erosion, Not Collapse
I’ve written about trauma-fueled burnout before—and if you haven’t read that yet, it’s worth your time.
But what I’m talking about here? This is different.
This isn’t collapse.
Nor is it rage-quitting your career.
What we are talking about is the slow drift into emotional displacement.
It’s the part where you still show up, still take the calls, still meet the deadlines—but your soul left the room three clients ago.
You’re physically present. Professionally responsive.
But emotionally and spiritually? You’re elsewhere.
It’s not burnout.
It’s residue.
The sticky emotional film that builds up after years of holding space for other people’s crises, confessions, projections, and needs.
You didn’t choose to go numb.
You just learned how to disappear in order to stay.
I saw it, clear as day, while watching The Rehearsal by Nathan Fielder.
At first glance, it looks like comedy.
But it’s not. It’s a man trying to feel something—anything—again, without the risk of real connection.
There’s a moment where Nathan describes his early job rejecting people on Canada’s Got Talent.
He says it so matter-of-factly, but you can see the scar tissue.
He had to crush dreams for a living.
And something in him shut down so he could keep doing it.
That’s what residue does.
It builds layer by layer until the only way to stay in the room is to stay outside of yourself.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re realizing you’ve done the same.
Not because you’re cold.
Because you had to be functional.
But you weren’t meant to function at the cost of your own humanity.
The Grief Beneath the Silence
At this point, we’ve gone deep. Maybe even too close for comfort. So let’s name it: this is grief.
Not grief for the work—but for what the work did to you.
The way it reshaped your identity. The way your emotional range got smaller as your responsibilities got bigger. The way your presence became a performance, and your spirit slowly stepped back to survive it.
We can’t dress it up any kind of way.
Emotional numbness is like the ascent of an airplane. You know you’re climbing higher and higher, but everything below starts looking smaller. That’s what happened to your emotions. As the client load increased, as the pressure mounted, as the stakes got higher—your emotional landscape had to shrink just to keep up with the altitude.
You didn’t plan to shrink. You adjusted to survive. You made your feelings bite-sized just to stay functional in a role that demands your whole heart.
And now… here we are. Naming the ache. Not trying to fix it. Not trying to run from it. Just letting it be real.
So yes, this is grief. Grief for the version of you who used to feel deeply. Grief for the humanity you shelved to keep doing the work. Grief for the moments you wanted to be held, but had to hold everyone else instead.
And here’s the truth:
Emotional numbness in healers isn’t always a sign to quit. Sometimes, it’s a signal to return.
A Different Kind of Recovery For Healers Dealing with Emotional Numbness
If you’re looking for a recovery plan that includes chanting, drumming, or a retreat in the Peruvian jungle with a suspicious liquid and a shared vomit bucket—this ain’t it.
This isn’t about spectacle.
This is about subtle repair.
A different kind of recovery begins when you stop performing healing—and start telling the truth about how the work has impacted you.
Not just the you that shows up to serve.
The you that quietly cracked under the pressure of never being allowed to fall apart.
Maybe it means taking a mandatory sabbatical every three years instead of waiting for a breakdown every five.
Maybe it means letting go of the clients who taught you how to harden.
The ones you stayed with too long out of guilt or pride.
The ones whose stories still echo inside you when no one’s around.
Maybe it means creating emotional boundaries you never thought you had the right to claim.
And maybe—just maybe—it means crying when something actually hits you.
Not because it’s convenient.
But because you’ve finally made space to feel something again.
This kind of recovery doesn’t make a spectacle of itself.
It’s not about becoming a wide-open empath again or reaching for some romanticized version of spiritual purity.
It’s about being whole.
Quietly. Gradually. On purpose.
It might mean working with someone who doesn’t try to fix you—but helps you finally stop disappearing in your own presence.
It’s not about reinvention.
It’s about return.
Final Note: You’re Not Broken. You’re Just Worn Out
You don’t need a fancy diagnosis to justify what you’re feeling emotional numbness as a healer.
You don’t need another course, certification, or framework to validate your right to rest.
What you do need is something our culture rarely gives people like you:
Margin for your own emotional life.
Not just rest.
Not just breathwork.
But permission to stop being the hero in every room you enter.
Dr. Kara Pepper once wrote, “There’s no RVU compensation for bereavement.”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it?
We’re trained to mute our grief. To perform steadiness. To keep showing up even when something inside us stopped showing up with us.
If you’ve been whisper-searching for a label for this numbness—this quiet ache that no one warned you about—this is your sign.
You’re not broken.
Nor are you unfit.
And please, don’t call yourself a fraud.
You’re someone who has carried too much, for too long, without space to set it down.
Let this be your turning point.
Not back into performance.
Not into reinvention.
But into remembrance.
Of who you were before the numbness.
Of what it felt like to care from a place that wasn’t survival.
You don’t have to keep disappearing in the name of holding space. You get to come home now. Slowly.
With kindness.
One breath, one boundary, one true feeling at a time.
Where to Go Next
💌 If this landed somewhere tender—take your time.
You don’t need to rush into clarity, healing, or action.
Just know: you’re not alone in this.
When you’re ready to keep exploring—
🎙️ The Introverted Entrepreneur Podcast has more real talk about healing, leadership, and what it means to show up without performing.
And if something in this stirred a question or a quiet yes—
👉 Write me a note. I’d love to hear from you.
