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by Adam McCormick, MSSW, PhD
When I ask social work students why it’s hard for them to set boundaries, the answers come quickly: “I don’t want to let anyone down.” “It feels selfish.” “I can handle it—I don’t want to burden anyone else.”
When I ask where they learned that saying “no” was dangerous, the room goes quiet.
That silence speaks volumes.
Many of us learned long before graduate school that boundaries were risky—that love and safety were earned through compliance, helpfulness, or self-sacrifice. For some, saying “yes” was how we kept the peace or stayed connected. For others, it was how we avoided shame or rejection. Those lessons might have kept us safe once, but they can quietly sabotage us in our professional lives.
In social work, these patterns often look like overcommitment, overfunctioning, or overidentification with the struggles of others. They show up as guilt when we rest, shame when we delegate, or panic when we disappoint. They can even disguise themselves as dedication or professionalism: “I’m just being a team player,” or “If I don’t do it, who will?”
But beneath those noble-sounding phrases is often an old fear: that our worth depends on our usefulness.
The Wound Beneath the Yes
For the past three years, I have interviewed social workers about the adaptations that they carried into this work from their childhood. They shared countless stories about worth, safety, and belonging that still drive their behavior long after the threat from childhood was gone. For some, the “fixer” identity began early in life as they studied family systems and when being helpful or invisible kept them connected to caregivers who were unpredictable, wounded, or unavailable.
The fixer grows up believing that love must be earned through service and that peace must be maintained through self-erasure. When those beliefs go unexamined, they become a professional liability disguised as a strength.
Social work often rewards the fixer. We celebrate those who stay late, take extra cases, and never complain. But when helping becomes a compulsion rather than a choice, burnout isn’t far behind. This is the hidden danger of our profession’s culture of self-sacrifice: we can lose touch with the self we’re sacrificing.
Boundaries as an Ethical Act
Boundaries are often misunderstood as barriers. In reality, they are a form of ethical practice or a way of honoring both ourselves and the people we serve. When we push past our limits to avoid discomfort or disapproval, we risk doing harm. A social worker who is exhausted, resentful, or emotionally flooded cannot show up with the same attunement and empathy that effective practice requires. Thus, boundaries aren’t about withholding care; they’re about sustaining it.
In the same way we create psychological safety for our clients, we must create it for ourselves. That means recognizing when our old adaptations, the fixer, the pleaser, the hero, the overachiever, the imposter, are running the show. It means understanding that boundaries are not punishments or walls; they are invitations to work from a place of truth rather than fear.
When I teach about this, I often say that boundaries are not about saying “no” to others; they’re about saying “yes” to what allows us to stay grounded, authentic, and effective.
The Trauma of “Yes”
We often talk about the trauma of rejection, neglect, and abandonment—the trauma of no. But for many social workers, the trauma of yes is just as powerful.
It’s the exhaustion that comes from being perpetually available. It’s the quiet resentment that builds when we say “yes” out of obligation or fear. It’s the ache of realizing we’ve betrayed ourselves or our most loved ones in the name of being “good.”
Over time, this trauma of yes erodes our ability to connect with compassion. We become depleted, cynical, or numb and not because we stopped caring, but because we cared from an empty place for too long.
The truth is that our yes only has meaning when it’s paired with a healthy no.
Relearning Boundaries
Relearning boundaries means revisiting the stories that taught us what connection required. It means understanding that the discomfort of setting limits is not danger. It’s growth.
Here are a few reflection questions I offer to students and supervisees who are beginning to recognize their fixer patterns.
1. What fear is this yes protecting?
When you agree to something that stretches you thin, ask yourself what you’re afraid might happen if you say “no.” Would you feel guilty? Fear disappointing someone? Those answers point to old stories, not current obligations.
2. What version of me is making this decision?
Is this my adult, grounded self, or my adaptive child (a scared child’s version of what a social worker should be), still trying to prove my worth through helpfulness?
3. Can I trust that a boundary can deepen connection rather than end it?
Many of us grew up in systems where boundaries meant punishment or withdrawal. In healthy relationships, boundaries create safety and remind us that authenticity, not compliance, is what sustains trust.
From Fear to Freedom
The first time I began setting boundaries in my own professional life, I felt terrified. I worried colleagues would think I was uncommitted or selfish. I expected backlash, rejection, or guilt. But what actually happened surprised me: my relationships improved. My students felt safer to be honest. My supervisees began to do the same in their own work. When we practice boundaries with compassion, we give others permission to do the same.
Boundaries are not the opposite of empathy; they are the structure that allows empathy to last. Without them, our compassion becomes transactional; with them, it becomes transformative.
So if you find yourself exhausted, resentful, or finding yourself saying “yes” when a healthy “no” is desperate to be said, take a moment to pause. Ask yourself not just what you’re agreeing to, but who is doing the agreeing—the adult social worker or the adaptive child still afraid of losing connection.
Boundaries are not where love ends. They are where authenticity begins. And in this work, where the line between caring and carrying is often blurred, that authenticity may be the most powerful intervention of all.
Adam McCormick, MSSW, PhD, is a professor of social work at St. Edward’s University and assistant professor at the University of Texas at Austin School of Social Work. An award-winning teacher with more than two decades of experience, he has dedicated his career to exploring the intersections of trauma, resilience, and social work practice, including the ways childhood trauma impacts helping professionals. Dr. McCormick is author of the book LGBTQ Youth in Foster Care and the forthcoming book, The Unfinished Business of Childhood: Healing the Social Worker’s Childhood Trauma Wounds. He is currently authoring a book exploring the trauma of boys.