For more than ten years, I’ve worked in contexts most people often read about – places affected by war, natural disasters, instability and human suffering. Places where people do not know where their next meal is coming from, where there is no physical safety or any kind of certainty about the future.
I chose this path with one simple, perhaps naive, idea: that I could help. That we – organisations – could ease this suffering by distributing food, water, and medicines, or in my case, by being a witness to people’s stories and making their voices heard.
Over time, I came to realize something quite surprising although very simple. Across borders and cultures, from Palestine to Iraq, Yemen to Sierra Leone, in every village or a bigger city, what people remembered most wasn’t always the aid we delivered.
It was the conversations. The moments when someone truly listened. Not just to their needs, but to them – as whole people.
Yes, the supplies mattered. Yes, we delivered medicines and water and they gratefully received it. But behind the structured conversations and formal needs assessments, what often stood out most, at least to me, was something much simpler – a question that seemed small, but carried real weight: How do you feel today?
In those moments, those people were no longer just recipients of aid, they were seen. They were human.
And that is the power of empathy.
But what do we mean when we speak about empathy?
Empathy is not simply feeling for someone, it’s feeling with them. It’s the ability to step into someone else’s world, to sit beside their pain without trying to fix it. Empathy says: I see you. I hear you. Your experience matters.
But the truth is, that while we extend empathy to others as humanitarians, our own suffering often goes unseen.
Humanitarian workers, whether on the frontlines of conflict or behind the scenes of social service programs, often carry invisible burdens. They absorb the trauma of others, while rarely being asked: How are you doing?
The culture within the sector tends to glorify strength and resilience, often at the cost of emotional honesty. There’s a strong belief: You are the helper. You must be okay. And if you’re not okay, well, maybe you’re not right for this work.
And that belief is prevalent in a lot of helping professions. There is a degree of shame involved – what if others find out I am not doing well? What will they think of me? That I am incapable?
And also fear. What if my manager is informed I was not doing well? Will I be asked to leave? Take a break? Will it influence my next assignment?
A lot of my fellow humanitarians had those thoughts or asked themselves those questions. So did I.
I remember coming back from 10 months in Afghanistan. I was not doing well. And that’s an understatement.
But did I tell my managers I needed support? No. Did I mention it in my exit interview? Of course not. I stayed “strong” until the end.
Strong, if we see vulnerability as a weakness.
If we see vulnerability as weakness, then admitting you’re struggling becomes dangerous. You fear being judged, overlooked, or even replaced.
But what if we reframed vulnerability? What if we see vulnerability as a strength?
In many humanitarian organisations, mental health support, in my experience, was either absent, superficial, or too reactive. It was often limited to short-term counselling after a crisis. When services were available, they were not always encouraged. There was no time carved out for that in the busy schedule of a humanitarian. The managers did not model that openness to employees.
Not to paint everything only in black, I’ve seen progress too, organisations are now offering counselling services to their employees. But it needs to go further.
We need long-term support, because 8 counselling sessions are not enough.
We need to support the whole person – not just the professional identity, because personal and professional aren’t separable.
We need preventative care, not only the management of a mental health crisis when burnout already happened.
We need to normalize these conversations. To destigmatize mental distress. Because even taking that first step – reaching out – requires courage among many.
And courage, by the way, is vulnerability in action.
So I ask myself: what would it mean to create institutions rooted in empathy? What would it look like if empathy is extended not just to those we serve, but also to those doing the serving?
Empathy isn’t just a personal trait. It’s a policy choice. It’s a leadership value. It’s a culture.
We need to make space for humanitarians to speak honestly about their distress, without fear of consequences and without shame.
Let’s return to this idea of vulnerability as strength.
To be vulnerable is to show up when there are no guarantees. To say “I am not okay” in a culture that expects you to be unshakable – that is not weakness. That is courage.
When we normalize emotional honesty, we don’t create less capable humanitarians, we create more sustainable ones. Ones who can serve others without losing themselves.
And maybe that’s the true meaning of humanitarianism – not just offering help to others, but daring to include ourselves in that circle of care.