On professional boundaries, shared grief, and the people who understand what veterinary medicine asks of us.
Some of the most meaningful conversations in veterinary medicine don’t happen during staff meetings, performance evaluations, or even inside the examination room.
Sometimes they happen in a group text between people who have spent years working together, dealing with difficult situations, caring for animals, and occasionally questioning their own sanity.
Recently, I had one of those conversations.
It started with frustration. It ended with something I hadn’t realized I needed: reassurance, understanding, and a reminder that the people we work beside often carry more than we realize.
When Caring Becomes an Expectation
After more than 30 years in veterinary medicine, I’ve learned quite a bit about animal health, client communication, and recognizing when something isn’t right.
I’ve also learned that knowing something about veterinary medicine doesn’t make me a veterinarian.
Apparently, this distinction is more difficult for some people to understand than it should be.
When family members, friends, or acquaintances have a sick animal, they naturally reach out to someone they know who works in veterinary medicine. I understand that. I don’t resent someone asking for guidance.
What becomes frustrating is when the expectation shifts from asking for guidance to expecting answers that cannot responsibly be provided without examining the animal.
Recently, a situation involving a family member’s dog brought that frustration to the surface.
I was concerned about the animal’s condition and advocated for veterinary attention. Eventually, the dog received care, but the experience left me questioning whether I had done enough and whether I had handled my frustration appropriately.
I knew why I was upset. I also knew that some of my frustration had come out more forcefully than I intended.
Those two things can be true at the same time.
Compassion Does Not Eliminate Professional Boundaries
During a conversation with two colleagues, I learned that I wasn’t the only one struggling with these expectations.
One colleague described the guilt she sometimes experiences when someone contacts her directly for veterinary advice, particularly outside normal working hours.
She wants to help. Of course she does.
But wanting to help and being qualified or positioned to provide medical advice are two very different things.
Our veterinarian expressed the same frustration from another perspective. Even with the education, clinical experience, and authority to diagnose and treat patients, she cannot responsibly determine what’s wrong with an animal she hasn’t examined.
That should be common sense.
Then again, common sense has never been particularly reliable when emotions are involved.
The issue isn’t whether veterinary professionals care.
It’s whether people understand that compassion has limitations, professional responsibilities have boundaries, and the person answering a text message cannot replace an examination.
An animal’s welfare must come first. Sometimes the most compassionate advice we can give is also the least complicated:
Your pet needs to be examined by a veterinarian.
It may not be the answer someone wants, but that doesn’t make it the wrong answer.
The Guilt We Carry
Something else came out of our conversation that I found particularly meaningful.
Guilt.
Not necessarily guilt because we did something wrong, but guilt because we couldn’t do more.
I questioned whether I had failed an animal I cared about.
My colleague questioned whether she was letting people down when she couldn’t answer their requests.
And our veterinarian understood the frustration of having the knowledge to help while still being limited by circumstances, incomplete information, and decisions outside her control.
What helped me was hearing someone I respect remind me that advocating for an animal does not make me responsible for every decision its owner makes.
I needed to hear that.
I also needed to acknowledge that my frustration, regardless of how justified it felt, didn’t automatically mean every word I said was appropriate.
Accountability still matters.
But accountability should be based on what we actually did or failed to do, not on an impossible expectation that we should somehow control every outcome.
Veterinary medicine would be difficult enough if we only carried responsibility for the things within our control.
Unfortunately, many of us have a habit of carrying everything else, too.
Sometimes the Grief Is Shared
Our conversation eventually turned toward something far more personal.
The loss of a beloved dog.
She belonged to one of my colleagues, but anyone who spent time around her knew she was special.
She had personality, attitude, and enough stubbornness to make you question who was actually running things.
She could be a complete little sasshole.
And we loved her for it.
What made her particularly special was how much she reflected the person who loved her. Her personality was unmistakable, and in many ways, she seemed like an extension of her owner.
That made loving her even more meaningful.
When we lost her, the grief wasn’t limited to one person.
Those of us who had spent time caring for her felt that loss too.
But grief in a veterinary practice can be complicated.
When someone is grieving the loss of their own animal, the last thing you want is to make their experience about yourself.
So sometimes you remain quiet.
You offer support. You continue working. You remember the animal privately.
And you don’t necessarily tell the person who loved her most that you are hurting too.
Our conversation reminded me that perhaps we don’t acknowledge those shared losses enough.
We spend so much time helping clients through grief that we occasionally forget the animals who become part of our own professional family.
They are not simply patients.
Some become familiar faces, daily companions, and personalities that leave a lasting impression on the people who care for them.
Their absence matters.
Having Each Other’s Backs
One of the responsibilities of practice management is protecting the people who make patient care possible.
That means establishing clear expectations, supporting professional boundaries, and recognizing when employees are being asked to carry responsibilities that don’t belong to them.
But leadership is also about relationships.
It’s about creating an environment where people can admit they’re struggling without worrying that someone will interpret it as weakness.
It’s about being able to tell a colleague that they didn’t fail simply because an outcome was heartbreaking.
It’s about recognizing grief, even when someone hasn’t spoken about it.
And sometimes it’s about having the kind of relationship where you can be completely frustrated with the world, say what you’re thinking, and know the people listening understand where you’re coming from.
That doesn’t mean we always agree.
It shouldn’t.
People who genuinely care about one another should be able to challenge each other when necessary.
But there’s a difference between challenging someone and leaving them to carry everything alone.
I’ve worked in veterinary medicine long enough to know that a supportive workplace doesn’t develop because someone writes We Are Family in an employee handbook.
It develops through trust, consistency, accountability, and the willingness to support one another when circumstances become difficult.
And trust isn’t established by agreeing with everything someone says.
It’s established by knowing they’ll tell you the truth, even when it isn’t particularly comfortable.
A Lesson Worth Remembering
Looking back, what started as an ordinary conversation about frustration became a reminder of something important.
We are all human.
We become attached to patients. We worry about animals we cannot help. We question our decisions. We become frustrated when people don’t recognize the limitations of veterinary medicine.
We also grieve.
Sometimes privately.
Sometimes together.
And sometimes we need someone who understands our profession to remind us that caring deeply does not mean accepting responsibility for everything.
As a practice manager, I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about what our team needs to function effectively.
Scheduling, finances, client communication, workflow, policies, and the countless details that keep a veterinary hospital operating.
All important.
But conversations like this remind me that supporting a team involves more than providing the tools and resources necessary to do the job.
It means recognizing the emotional demands of the profession and remembering that the people doing the work need care and understanding too.
I ended that conversation feeling better than I had when it began.
Not because anything about the situation had changed.
But because I was reminded that I wasn’t carrying it alone.
Sometimes the people who have our backs need to know that we have theirs, too.
And sometimes we need to tell them.
Identifying details have been omitted or altered to respect the privacy of the people and animals involved.
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