Crying in thecar isn't weakness, its how we release the pain so we can keep going

It usually happens when the door closes. You’ve kept your face steady through the visit. You’ve listened carefully, reassured where you could, and made the professional judgments the job demands. But then you step outside, walk back to the car, and shut the door. In that silence, everything you’ve been holding finally surfaces. The tears come.

I know this well, because I have cried in the car more times than I can count.

As a Sikh social worker, I was raised with the belief that truth matters, that honesty matters. In Sikhi there is a word, bhavna, that meansdeep feeling, heartfelt emotion. Far from being weakness, bhavna is a sign of humanity. It means we haven’t hardened ourselves so much that nothing gets through. And yet, in social work, we are often told to hide our feelings, as if being moved by suffering is something to be ashamed of.

Crying in the car is never about one single thing. It’s the disclosure from a child whose voice was barely above a whisper. It’s the parent who lashed out in anger, but whose fear you could still sense beneath the rage. It’s the removal that had to be done but left a mother’s scream echoing in your mind.

The system demands that we keep going. Fill out the forms. Make the decisions. Attend the meetings. But the human cost does not clock off at 5pm. It lingers. It travels with us. And for many of us, the car is the only place we let that weight show.

Social work culture often pushes us towards silence. “Be resilient.” “Stay objective.” “Don’t get too close.” These are the mantras we hear. Supervision too often focuses on performance targets rather than how we are coping. Colleagues trade war stories, but rarely talk about tears.

And yet I cannot ignore my own humanity. Sikhi teaches us not to hide behind masks. Guru Nanak himself rejected empty rituals and false pretence. So why should I pretend I am untouched when a child tells me their story, or when I leave a home knowing it may never feel safe again?

Our professional frameworks talk about resilience, reflection, and self-care. The BASW Code of Ethics reminds us that dignity applies to ourselves as much as to others. But in practice, these values often get squeezed out by bureaucracy and pressure.

For me, resilience does not mean silence. It means Chardi Kala, the Sikh principle of remaining in high spirits, of holding hope even when faced with suffering. Crying in the car isn't weakness, it's how we release the pain so we can keep going.

Of course, there is a cost when there’s no outlet. We all know it: burnout, sickness, people leaving the profession. Some harden themselves until nothing touches them anymore. Others walk away altogether.

But those who still cry in the car? They are the ones still connected: still open, still willing to feel. The danger is not that we feel too much. The danger is that one day we might stop feeling altogether. And that is when children lose not just workers, but advocates who truly care.

If we are serious about sustaining this profession, we must stop pretending that emotion is weakness. Leaders need to create space for genuine reflection, not just managerial oversight. Peer support, mentoring, and informal debriefs aren’t luxuries, they are necessities.

In Sikhi, we talk about sangat: community. Social work needs its own form of sangat: a space where we can share our struggles openly, hold each other up, and remember that we are not alone in this work. Because the welfare of all, Sarbat da Bhala, includes us too.

I have sat in my car after visits and let the tears flow. I have driven home with blurred eyes and a heavy chest. And I know I will do so again.

But I no longer see it as weakness. I see it as bhavna: proof that my heart is still alive in this work. Evidence that I am still human, still connected, still willing to carry some of the weight for those who have no choice but to live it.

The day social workers stop crying in the car will not be the day we become strong. It will be the day we stop being human. And humanity is the only thing that can truly protect children.