When people think about working in the health sector, the focus is often on services, systems, and outcomes – counselling sessions conducted, visits completed, data recorded. What is less visible, however, is the emotional work that quietly runs alongside these tasks.
During my initial field visits, I did not anticipate how much of this work would involve listening not just to information, but to stories. Every visit brought with it fragments of someone’s lived experience: pregnancy journeys, postnatal struggles, everyday negotiations within households. Over time, I realised that these were not isolated conversations. They stayed with me long after the visits were over.
In the beginning, this was difficult to process.
There were moments that felt particularly heavy. I remember a postnatal mother being advised not to consume eggs because her baby had developed rashes, and the family believed the two were connected. In another instance, a mother was not given breakfast because the baby had loose motions, and it was assumed that reducing her food intake would help. She was left managing on just two meals a day, even when she expressed that she felt hungry.
There were also recurring patterns; families expressing a preference for a male child, sometimes even after multiple children. These were not always direct statements, but subtle pressures that shaped how women experienced pregnancy and motherhood.
At times, what struck me most was the age of the mothers themselves. During counselling sessions, I often found myself wondering how young they looked. Later, when I asked the MPWs, my observations were confirmed as many of them were in their late teens or early twenties. Seeing them navigate pregnancy and childcare at such a young age added another layer to these interactions.
Then there were the terms that appear simple on paper but carry far more weight in reality. In records, details such as the number of pregnancies or abortions are entered as data points numbers that contribute to reporting and analysis. But in conversations, these numbers unfold into lived experiences. Abortion, for instance, is not just a clinical term. It carries physical strain, emotional impact, and, in many cases, silence.
Listening to these stories regularly began to have an effect. It was not a single incident but the accumulation of many such moments. Each story, on its own, may seem manageable. But over time, they begin to layer, making it difficult to detach completely.
This is where the emotional labour of such work becomes visible.
To listen with attention, to respond with empathy, and to remain present in these conversations requires a certain kind of emotional engagement. At the same time, there is also an unspoken expectation to remain composed, to continue with the work, and to not let these experiences interfere with one’s ability to function.
Finding this balance is not always easy.
In the early days, I found myself carrying these stories back from the field. They would linger in thoughts, in conversations, and sometimes even in silence. There is a point where feeling too deeply can become overwhelming, but distancing oneself completely also feels inadequate. Navigating this space between empathy and detachment becomes an ongoing process.
Over time, I began to understand that this emotional dimension is not separate from the work rather it is a part of it. It shapes how we listen, how we interpret situations, and how we engage with people. It also influences how we understand data. Numbers begin to feel less abstract when they are connected to real experiences.
At the same time, it becomes important to recognise the need for boundaries. Being present does not mean absorbing everything. Developing ways to process, reflect, and, at times, step back becomes essential for sustaining oneself in this work.
What also stood out was that this emotional labour is not experienced by field fellows alone. Frontline workers – ASHAs, ANMs engage with these realities every day. They listen, counsel, and support families while managing their own personal responsibilities. Their ability to continue this work, often with limited recognition, reflects a different kind of strength one that is both emotional and practical.
These experiences have reshaped how I understand work within the health sector. It is not only about delivering services or meeting targets, but about engaging with people’s lives in ways that are often intangible and difficult to capture.
What becomes visible over time is the role of empathy not just in the moment of interaction, but also in what follows. Listening to stories, responding with care, and being present in those conversations carries an emotional weight that does not end when the visit is over. This is where the idea of emotional aftercare becomes important the need to process, reflect, and make space for what one carries back from the field.
There is no clear metric for this kind of labour. It does not appear in reports or dashboards, yet it is embedded in every interaction. The act of listening itself becomes a form of care, but it also requires care for the self.
Working in such contexts, therefore, is not only about knowledge or efficiency. It is about sustaining empathy while also learning how to hold boundaries to remain present without being overwhelmed.
Perhaps the most challenging aspect lies in maintaining this balance: to stay sensitive to people’s experiences without losing oneself in them. And it is in navigating this space between empathy and endurance that the work finds its deeper meaning.
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