Some stories stay with us not because they are dramatic, but because they are honest.

Last week on my trip, I met a woman who used to be a nurse. Early in her career, she worked in hospice.

She told me that during those first years, she often couldn’t sleep at night. Not because of the hours or the work itself, but because she was so sad. What surprised her most was that, more often than not, the families weren’t as sad as she was.

She wasn’t judging them. She understood that grief shows up in different ways—sometimes as tears, sometimes as numbness, sometimes as practical focus. But she was the one sitting there day after day, watching people reach the end of their lives. She was the one absorbing the small moments: the silence, the unfinished conversations, the way a room changes when someone knows they are dying.

She carried those moments home with her. The families went back to their lives; she went back to her thoughts. And for a long time, sleep was hard.

Listening to her, I was struck by how often this happens with people who care for others. Teachers, nurses, aides, counselors—people whose job is to stay present. They don’t just do the work; they hold the weight of it. Even when they don’t talk about it. Even when no one sees it.

I had written something along these lines in my book before I ever met her. Meeting her didn’t add drama to the idea—it added truth.

Some people feel more deeply simply because they are closer to the moment. Not closer by blood, but by presence. And that kind of closeness can be heavy.

I’m glad she told me her story. It’s one worth remembering.

It’s a reminder that presence has a cost—and that cost is often invisible.

Albert Alarcon Jr.
Author of The Nature Within Us