Cloe Egnaczak

Two Roles, One Very Tired Woman

Nobody tells you how strange it feels to sit across from a client, fully present for their pain, while your own body and mind are still recovering from bringing a new life into the world. I would spend the day helping others name their feelings, set boundaries, and ask for support, and then go home to a baby who needed everything I had left, which some days wasn't much.

I still remember my first day back from maternity leave. My team had kept moving without me, the way teams do. My caseload, my routines, even the small talk in the hallway all felt far away, like I was watching someone else's life through glass. I sat at my desk, and one thought kept coming back: This is not where I should be. And right behind it came another, just as loud: But how can I abandon my whole career, my whole identity? I had spent years becoming this person. I didn't know who I was if I let her go, and I didn't know how to be her anymore, either.

I told myself it was just a season. I told myself that I, of all people, should know how to handle this. I had the training. I knew the signs. I taught other people the signs.

That was part of the problem.

The Shame of Needing Help

It was not an easy journey, and eventually, I had to admit that I was struggling more than I could manage on my own. I needed treatment. And as a therapist, seeking it was hard on so many levels.

There was the practical side: finding the right provider, figuring out what I needed, and fitting care into a life already stretched thin. But the hardest part was the shame. I kept thinking: I'm supposed to be the helper. What does it say about me if I can't help myself? Would people see me differently? Would I see myself differently?

I had encouraged countless clients to take that exact step. I had gently explained that needing more support isn't failure. I believed every word. It turns out believing it for someone else is very different from believing it for yourself.

What I Learned From the Other Side

Sitting on the other side of the couch changed how I understand my work.

I finally felt, in a way no training could teach me, how hard it is for my clients to move to a higher level of care. The forms. The waitlists. The phone calls you have to make when you can barely get out of bed. The fear of being judged. The exhaustion of explaining your story again to someone new. If the system felt this confusing and heavy to me, someone who works inside it every day, what must it feel like to someone who doesn't?

That realization humbled me. It also lit something in me.

Taking Care of the People Who Take Care of Others

My journey made me think seriously about what I want to do as a social worker, and the answer became clear. We have to make the system easier to navigate. Care shouldn't require a map that only professionals can read.

That starts with us. Therapists need more education about the barriers our clients face when they need more care and about how to walk alongside them through those transitions instead of simply handing them a referral. And we have to take care of the people who take care of others. Therapists, social workers, nurses, mothers: so many of us are holding space for everyone except ourselves. We need workplaces, professional cultures, and communities that make it safe to say, "I need help, too," without shame.

After my second time seeking treatment, I came back different. I was ready to set boundaries, and for the first time, I was ready to reinvent myself instead of squeezing back into the shape I'd been before. Somewhere in that season, I realized I needed to work for myself. My values and my sense of purpose had changed, and I needed the freedom to build something that reflected who I had become. Larger organizations do important work, and I'm grateful for everything I learned in them, but I knew the space I wanted to create had to be my own. I wanted to build a team where clinicians are encouraged to advocate for themselves while advocating for and caring for the people we serve. A place where taking care of yourself isn't seen as taking something away from your clients, but as part of how you show up for them.

To the Woman Holding Everyone Else

If you are a mom, a caregiver, or a helper who is quietly struggling, I want you to hear this from someone who has been there: needing support does not cancel out your strength. It doesn't make you less capable at your job or less of a mother. If anything, it makes you more human and more able to understand the people you care for.

I am a better therapist because I have sat on the other side of the couch. I'm a better mother because I stopped pretending I could do it all alone. And I am more committed than ever to building a world where asking for help is easier for all of us.

Moms are always caring so much. It's time we let ourselves be cared for, too.