Confronting Compassion Fatigue as the Pastor of Compassion Church
As this doctoral program concludes, I find myself reflecting on how much of leadership is interior. Strategy and structure still matter, but they are not the core. The real work happens in the unseen places, the places Friedman calls the “self of the leader” and Walker names the “backstage.” Returning to formal education was an act of recognition, a confession that I needed deeper formation. This journey has sharpened my mind, but more importantly it has exposed and tended the parts of my soul that had been straining under the weight of ministry.
One of the truths emerging for me is my tendency toward people-pleasing. Charles Stone’s People Pleasing Pastor and Scazzero’s work on emotional health named the pattern for me, but Walker and Friedman showed me its inner mechanism. I have spent years carrying the quiet pressure to be everything to everyone. Pastors often learn early to read a room, absorb tension, and make peace. Over time, those habits become identity. What began as compassion morphed into a compulsion. In this program, I have slowly learned to minister from presence rather than approval, to listen inwardly before reacting outwardly, and to allow myself the grace of not pleasing everyone.
Parenting has been another teacher. As a foster and adoptive dad, I’ve learned more about my nervous system in the last few years than I did in the first decade of ministry. Lisa Qualls’ language of blocked care has been transformative. There were seasons when compassion felt hard to access and I did not understand why. I now know that when the nervous system is overwhelmed, even good parents and pastors experience emotional numbness and fatigue. Qualls—and our lived experience with trauma-informed parenting—helped me recognize this not as failure but as physiology. There are parallels in ministry. Long stretches of crisis or accumulated needs can lead to pastoral blocked care. Recognizing this has taught me to ask for help earlier, to rest without guilt, and to tend my internal world with patience rather than shame.
These insights have helped me embrace what Scazzero calls the “gift of limits.” I am learning that my limitations are not obstacles to overcome but invitations to trust. Limits teach me to rely on others, to engage my family with more tenderness, and to let God be God. This shift has made me a more honest leader, aware that I cannot be the answer to every problem and that I am not meant to be.
Walker and Friedman offer images that have become thresholds for my inner life. Walker’s idea of the backstage has helped me pay attention to what happens when no one is watching. It is the place where my motives, fears, and identity are shaped. If neglected, the front stage of ministry becomes brittle. Friedman’s metaphor of the leader as a thermostat rather than a thermometer has changed how I enter anxious environments. Instead of mirroring the emotional climate around me, I am learning to regulate myself and set a temperature grounded in calm, hope, and clarity.
In this season, I am noticing a shift in my leadership identity. Some of my most creative, pioneering years feel like they are behind me, and I am content with that. I feel drawn into the role of a coach, a cultivator, someone who empowers others to lead from their gifts. This transition requires restraint, but it also carries joy. The doctoral work itself has reinforced this shift. Much of my growth has been slow, reflective, and interior. Writing, reading, and integrating theory with lived experience have cultivated a new kind of leadership presence in me, one marked less by urgency and more by attentiveness.
Even navigating the use of AI has become part of my formation. Learning to use it ethically, not as a shortcut but as a reflective partner, has sharpened my integrity. It has taught me to bring my authentic voice and pastoral identity to the work rather than outsourcing my soul to efficiency.
All of this inner work is happening during the Advent season, and the timing feels like a gift. Advent is about waiting, becoming, and trusting that God is moving in the quiet and hidden places. My inner landscape feels like Advent. I am waiting, listening, and allowing the slow work of God to take root. Much of this program has been an Advent journey. I have sat with my limits, my longings, and the unfinished parts of myself. Formation has come gently, often quietly, and sometimes painfully. Advent reminds me that God does some of his best work in silence and in the dark.
As I look ahead, I do not feel urgency to define the future. I feel an invitation to inhabit it faithfully. I am discerning how my pastoral presence might widen beyond Compassion, how writing or teaching might serve the broader church, and how to steward my energy in sustainable ways. These are not strategic questions as much as spiritual ones. They require listening, patience, and courage.
Certain practices keep me grounded. Sabbath remains my anchor. It restores my identity, quiets my nervous system, and reminds me that I am more than my productivity. Somatic breathing, the Daily Office, and embodied prayer sustain me through the week. The rhythms of compassionate care in our home shape both my parenting and my pastoring with tenderness.
All of this, from Walker’s insight to Friedman’s guidance to the doctoral program’s demands, has formed a more integrated self. I live and lead in emotionally complex environments. My vocation now is to steward those spaces with grounded-ness and grace, and to extend to myself the same compassion I offer others. I sense God inviting me to lead from a deeper place within, from presence rather than striving, and from the quiet hope of Advent that God is still forming me.
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