How to Leave Work at Work: End-of-Day Rituals for Therapists

This is for the helper whose work is never really "done."

For the therapist who holds space day in and day out, knowing the emotional labor is high, the progress is slow, and the outcome is—let’s be honest—often murky.

If you’ve ever walked away from a session wondering, “Did that even help?”
If you’ve ever felt like your heart is in it, but the results are out of your hands…
If you’ve ever carried the weight of trying to "make a difference" while questioning whether it’s happening…

You’ll get this.

Why I Started Craving Chores

Some days, I just needed to see something through to the end. To start something… and finish it.

In the thick of client work, progress is rarely linear.

Sometimes it backslides.
Sometimes it stalls.
And sometimes, it’s invisible altogether.

That’s the nature of our work. It’s deeply human. Slow-moving. Open-ended.

So I started noticing this funny pattern:

After a heavy day or a long week, I’d crave tasks with a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Washing the dishes.
Doing laundry.
Folding towels into neat little stacks.

I’m not saying I love chores, but I do love the completion.

There’s something so satisfying about watching something transform.
Dirty to clean. Full to empty. Chaos to order.

I could check it off, see the result, and feel done even if just for a moment.

And honestly? It helped balance me.

The Quiet Gift of Closure

At work, I plant seeds I may never see bloom. That’s what this work is, right?

Tending the soil. Offering water and light. Trusting the process.

Sometimes we witness the growth: those beautiful shifts, breakthroughs, or moments of clarity. But more often, we don’t.

Sometimes the seeds don't take root until long after the work is done.

And that’s hard to sit with, especially for those of us who care deeply and genuinely want to help.

We long to hear those sweet words: “You’re so good at what you do. You helped me so much. I’m all better now. Thank you.” (Okay... that last part might be pure fantasy.)

The point is: we want to know our efforts made a difference. That we did what we set out to do.

So in my personal time, I started intentionally creating spaces where I could complete something.

Bake something.
Fold something.
Paint a room.
Organize a drawer.

My family laughs when I’m on my third load of laundry by 10 a.m., and friends question my sanity when they see me washing dishes by hand instead of using the dishwasher.

But these small rituals let me witness a before-and-after.
They gave my nervous system something my clinical work often couldn’t: closure.

You Are Not the Outcome

Yes, treatment goals matter.
Yes, we need a clinical direction.

But I want to offer something that’s been freeing for me:

What would shift if you released yourself from being responsible for the results?

Not abandoning your clients’ goals, just releasing the pressure to carry the outcome.

Because at the end of the day...

We are NOT responsible for our clients.
We are responsible to them by showing up with presence, skill, boundaries, and care.

The rest? That’s theirs.

I know managed care might roll their eyes at that idea. But for the sake of your own nervous system — for your sustainability in this work — I want you to hear it again:

You are not the outcome.

Let Yourself Feel Finished Sometimes

So here’s what I want to ask you:

• What do you do when you need to feel something is done?
• Can you allow yourself moments of completion, even outside your clinical role?
• How might your work feel different if you focused more on the process than the product?

If this resonates, I’d love to support you.

In my 1:1 work with mental health professionals, we explore what it looks like to stay connected to yourself while doing this work. Through somatic regulation, nervous system care, and practical support, you can hold space without losing yourself in it.

If you’re craving support, presence, and a deeper connection to your body and the process, please know I’m right here.

Book a free Grounding Call with me and experience what it’s like to receive the kind of care you so often give.

You’re not alone in this.

Always,
Betsy