No matter how many times I do this job, I never quite get used to the goodbyes.
There’s a quiet sort of ache that comes with leaving a care placement. Sometimes it’s expected — a planned discharge, a return home, a family stepping in. Other times, it comes with loss. But no matter the reason, walking out of a home where you’ve lived, worked, and cared always feels heavier than you think it will.
Leaving a job is not an easy task. You leave a chair you always sat in, meals you used to prepare, and a routine you helped create. The most vulnerable aspects of someone’s life—their agony, their history, their morning breath, and their midnight tears—are left behind when they trust you with them. You have heard their tales. You’ve maintained their privacy. Unbeknownst to you, they have also occupied space within you. You’ve held their stories. You’ve kept their secrets. And somehow, without noticing, they’ve taken up space in you, too.
In this work, you arrive as a stranger and, more often than not, you leave as someone who mattered. That’s why leaving a care placement isn’t just about packing a bag — it’s about untangling yourself from a shared life, even if only for a short while.
Some goodbyes are warm. There are cards, hugs, maybe a small gift pressed into your hand. Others are quieter — a tired wave, a “thank you” whispered at the door. And sometimes, there is no goodbye at all — just the stillness of a room that’s now empty.
But always, there is the shift. The next placement. The new name, the new care plan, the new home. You pack your suitcase, do your checks, and prepare to begin again. Yet each client leaves a mark — not always in grand ways, but in the most minor, most human details. A phrase they used. A recipe they taught you. A laugh that still echoes.
What I’ve learned is that leaving a care placement is just as much a part of care as arriving. The bond doesn’t disappear just because the job ends. And grief isn’t only about death — sometimes it’s about moving on from something meaningful.
I carry them with me—all of them. In the way I work. In the way I listen. I sit a little longer when someone needs to talk. Because every goodbye, no matter how bittersweet, has shaped the kind of carer — and person — I’ve become.
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