Journal Entry - The Cost of Caring

Sometimes it feels like my own mental health is being held hostage by a system that refuses to listen. I wake up with this heavy, familiar tightness in my chest, and I know it isn’t just my own personal stress, it is the collective weight of every person I see being sidelined by the “failed and absurd” policies in this country. I am realising that my empathy for those caught in the crosshairs of tobacco harm reduction is a double-edged sword. It gives me the fire to write my Substack and push for change, but it also means I never truly get to rest. My peace of mind is constantly interrupted by the thought of another “abandonment of care” happening in real time.

I find myself obsessing over the “spatial erasure” of people who use nicotine, and I can see how that obsession is starting to mirror my own social withdrawal. I spend so much time analysing how society pushes these individuals into the shadows that I have started to feel like I am living in the shadows right alongside them. It is hard to engage in “normal” life or small talk when your brain is screaming about a massive public health betrayal. I worry that my focus on the “duty of care” for the public is causing me to neglect the duty of care I owe to myself. I’m so busy trying to build a bridge for others to reach safety that I’m forgetting to check if the ground I’m standing on is even stable.

The mental exhaustion of searching for that one “profound statement” is becoming harder to ignore. I feel like if I could just find the perfect combination of words, I could make the world see the human cost of these rigid, abstinence-only ideologies. But when that doesn’t happen, or when leadership remains deaf to the evidence, it feels like a personal failure. That is the part that hurts my mental health the most, the feeling that if I’m not loud enough or clear enough, then more people will be left behind. It’s a hero complex mixed with a deep, aching sadness, and it’s a lot for one person to carry.

I am starting to see that my anxiety is a direct reflection of the chaos I’m trying to fix. Every time a new, restrictive policy is announced, it feels like a physical impact. It isn’t just an intellectual disagreement; it’s a mourning for the health and dignity of people I will likely never meet. I worry about their isolation, their shame, and their lack of options, and that worry settles into my bones. I need to find a way to decouple my own worth and my own happiness from the slow, frustrating pace of systemic change. If I don’t, I’m afraid the very empathy that drives me to advocacy will eventually be the thing that burns me out completely. I have to learn how to keep fighting for their visibility without letting my own light go out in the process.