I’m showing my age here, but I’m a lifelong Trekkie. I watched the original Star Trek series as a child when it first aired (though sometimes I found it a bit scary) and then all throughout its time in syndication. At one point, you could pretty much find Star Trek on network TV any time of the day or night.

I remember the impression one episode made on me. The landing party arrives on Minara II to pick up a scientific expedition scheduled for evacuation, but they are captured and tortured by a group of aliens. The real victim, however, is a mute woman who seems to experience every emotion and even the injuries the captives undergo. Dr. McCoy names the woman Gem, and determines that she is able to absorb the pain of others. The episode is titled The Empath.
I was probably a pre-teen when I saw this episode in re-runs, but even then, the realization struck me vividly.
I was an empath.
At the time, this was a revelation to me. I didn’t know there was such a thing. For many years, it remained a fictional construct in my mind, not a real condition but something from science fiction. I was an adult before I heard other people refer to themselves as empaths, and then I realized my pre-teen self had been right all along.

Recently, I lost a beloved senior dog. Because he frequently starred in my social media posts, I made an announcement to my followers. Doing so put me on the “pet loss” side of TikTok, and my entire feed became stories of people losing their pets, people asking for money to help treat their pets, rescue animals needing adoption, and so on. It was, to put it mildly, devastating to be hit with the intense grief and pain of people expressing their losses every time I opened my phone. Tears still well in my eyes every time I think about some of these stories.
For this reason, social media can often become overwhelming for me. I catch myself responding to people’s posts of loss and grief because I understand how those losses would impact me. But this takes an emotional toll on me, much as Gem suffered physically with every injury she absorbed.
The other day, a co-worker expressed frustration with family members who kept sending her posts they thought she should be aware of: sick kittens with severe upper respiratory infections. Dogs with burn injuries or needing thousands of dollars to support their chemotherapy. Animals in situations of abuse or neglect.
I told her that she needed to tell her well-meaning family to stop sending her this sort of thing. A high proportion of people in veterinary medicine are empaths. They are drawn to veterinary careers because that’s what their caring hearts call them to do. But we in vet med are engaging our empath batteries every single day at work. Many of us are completely drained by the time we get home, so much so, there is little energy left over for those we love.
The last thing we need to do is absorb the pain of complete strangers on the internet, no matter how much their grief begs that we respond. This isn’t being callous. It’s the opposite of being uncaring. This is choosing to guard your reserves so you can use them for the people, animals, and loved ones in front of you.
This is a hard lesson for empaths to accept. I believe it’s one of the many reasons the burnout rate is so high in vet med. But it’s a necessary one if we’re to keep going in a profession that demands so much from us emotionally, physically, and mentally. Especially when it feels like the world around us is becoming meaner and less empathetic.
We as empaths must protect our energy and use it in the best means possible. Where it can make a real difference. We have to tune out things that are beyond our control to effect, and focus on the areas where we can effect change.
A lesson I must remind myself on a frequent basis.