It takes courage to share the other side of aid work: the pain, the burnout, the tears. The feeling that you cannot cope any more, the sense of failure because you think everyone else is doing fine in the same circumstances.

This is the start of my “sharing journey”. My current job will be my last position in the international development/humanitarian sector. I am sad it has come to this but after 15 years of aid work, including placements in Afghanistan, the Americas (in volatile countries), the Middle East and Sudan, I feel that I may not recover from experiencing another security incident. Staying on would be a risk that I cannot take: for my sake, for the sake of my employers, for the sake of my family and friends.

It is not really surprising that burnout happens in this line of work, is it? We are only human and aid work exposes you to some pretty harsh realities. First there is the “day to day”, which becomes part of your routine but is not normal in any shape or form. In my case this “routine” has involved seeing extreme poverty in all its forms, sitting with victims of conflict in brutally war-torn areas and hearing their tales of suffering, seeing that minor illness and resulting death is not a scandal but the norm for some – part and parcel of what it means to be alive and human.

And then you have the security risks. There is something disturbing about a 30-year-old single person writing a will or a “letter from the grave”, or about putting in place security questions in case you are kidnapped. It is exhausting to have to be vigilant all the time: I still have 360-degree vision wherever I go and get edgy when someone walks too close behind me in the streets.

In some areas, the knowledge that every day could be your last, that you or your friends may not come home at the end of that day, becomes a core part of your psyche. You do not even notice that it affects you, but of course it is bound to. Then there are the more drastic events: the major security incidents preceded by the auto-pilot mentality that you need to master in order to take the correct security steps in an emergency or plan an evacuation; the fear you feel for your colleagues when an incident happens.

All this is coupled with another side of aid work, overwhelming in a different way: the love and hospitality the locals often share with us visitors and the gratitude they express for what we can offer in terms of help. The guilt that we can just walk away to a safe home or on rest and recuperation (R&R) while they remain faced with the same realities – sometimes for their entire lives – is as much part of the job as the empathy you feel, the powerlessness at not being able to do more for them.

The pain of an evacuation, of leaving behind local colleagues, projects and communities you have come to know and love, burns a hole in your heart. No matter how much therapy you have, this pain changes your life forever. It has changed mine. I would not miss any of my experiences for anything in the world –they have made me who I am. But none of it has been easy.

There is often the attitude that you are weak if you are struggling, but this attitude is dangerous. Often it leads to people continuing to work in stressful environments when it is not healthy, adopting dangerous coping strategies before burning out completely, or an inability to settle back into “normal” life at home after completing a deployment. As it is, the latter takes considerable time.

Unlike others who have shared their stories on this section, I have been lucky in that all my employers have responded and helped me when I have asked for help. And I firmly believe that if those of us who know the other side of aid work speak up about the scars that we may bear, employers may get better at preventing and supporting those who might suffer or are already suffering burnout and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). They may also become more able to discern the tell-tale signs of burnout and reach out to those affected, rather than wait for us to ask for assistance.

We need to speak up about wellbeing in the aid world; we need to acknowledge that often it is not weakness but compassion that can lead to experiences affecting us so deeply. Admitting to our pain takes a lot of courage. Sometimes it is easy to forget that we are actually “honourably wounded”, as Marjory F Foyle has so aptly put it.

Nicola Rieger runs the blog Raindrops on Roses.

We will be continuing to explore the issue of mental health and wellbeing in the aid sector this week on Global Development Professionals Network. You can follow the coverage here. Get in touch on globaldevpros@theguardian.com if you would like to comment on the topic.

• If you have been affected by the stories in this article, the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123 in the UK. If you live outside the UK, a list of organisations providing support internationally can be found here.
  

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