There’s a line from a song that’s been echoing in my head lately: “It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside…” Funny not in the humorous sense, but in the quietly surprising way that some emotions creep up on you—unexpected, complex, and deeply human.

Lately, I’ve found myself experiencing a feeling I can only liken to that of a proud parent. Not in the traditional, maternal sense, but in the way one feels when witnessing growth, transformation, and success in someone they’ve supported through the hard parts. As an occupational therapist, I’ve always cared about my clients’ progress, but recently, something shifted. I’ve had the opportunity to engage more directly and consistently with individuals on my caseload. The result has been incredibly rewarding—and deeply revealing.

For much of my time as an OT, my caseload has been full and fast-paced. The demands of the role often mean moving from one session to the next, always striving for excellence but sometimes missing the chance to pause, observe, and truly witness growth. Now, with a slightly different rhythm, I’ve been granted a front-row seat. And what I see astounds me: the tiny victories that snowball into major milestones, the confidence slowly replacing fear, the self-belief born from effort and support.

It’s a profound privilege.

And yet, this closeness is not without its complications.

With deeper connection comes a sharper awareness of the challenges. It’s harder to compartmentalize when you’re invested on this level. Setbacks sting a little more. Missed goals linger in your mind longer. You carry the emotional weight of the journey with more tenderness. Boundaries blur not in a professional sense, but in an emotional one—you care, deeply, and that care is both a source of strength and a potential vulnerability.

This duality is something many therapists quietly carry: the emotional balancing act between clinical detachment and human empathy. We strive to be objective, yet our work is so deeply relational that feeling something is inevitable. And perhaps necessary. Because to truly support someone through recovery, adaptation, or development, we must be willing to stand in that sometimes uncomfortable space of emotional investment.

So yes, it’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside. It’s pride, it’s protectiveness, it’s joy, and it’s sometimes heartbreak. It’s the quiet thrill of knowing you’ve played a small role in someone else’s triumph—and the humility that comes with realizing the journey is ultimately theirs.

To my fellow OTs and helping professionals: cherish those moments of connection. Let them ground you. Let them remind you why you do what you do. But also, protect your peace. Reflect, replenish, and return with clarity.

Because this work—the privilege of walking beside someone on their path—is sacred. And every now and then, when the feeling rises unexpectedly, let it. It means you’re doing more than a job. You’re making a difference.