Stains of Compassion
In some ways, they were a prophet of sorts, as if they were the armor for the battles ahead— not of the body, but of the mind and spirit.
White uniform always seemed too perfect for what it represented—integrity, purity, and harmony. It clung to the body of someone who, for better or worse, believed in their ability to be compassionate to those who have become unseen. The white color contrasted against their fair-skin that seemed unburdened by the weight of stories yet untold. In some ways, they were a prophet of sorts, as if they were the armor for the battles ahead—not of the body, but of the mind and spirit.
The first few weeks in the facilities passed, their uniform still gleamed in the morning light. At these times, the people commonly visit to consult for their concerns. Oftentimes, they were helped by changing negative thoughts, finding purpose, and managing personal challenges. All these sessions lasted for hours depending on each case. Within these hours, some of the toughest battles of an individual were revealed. The silence can be so loud, but sometimes the isolated room can be filled with cries.
Another week passed, and their sessions grew longer. Each one told a different story, and each one carried a different burden of suffering. The weight of their empathy started to cling to them like a fog that slowly absorbed their despair, leaving them behind a piece of it. Then, they started to notice a dark spot that had not been there before. It was not much, just a faint spot near their sleeve, but it was there.
Then came the first stain.
Some were from tears that had fallen—tears that were not on their own but those of people whose pain had become too much to bear. The white uniform that was once pristine, now bore the weight of these stories. It had become a canvas for sorrow as these lives became entangled with their own. Some stains were invisible but some felt just the same—grief, trauma, fear—that etched into their mind like shadows that refused to leave.
Then came a tear.
It happened on a day like any other. The tear was not just in the fabric of their uniform but in their belief that they could not hold the world’s pain without it breaking them. They were unraveling, and they did not even know it. The white of their uniform was a lie, it had never been about integrity, purity, or harmony; it was about fragility, and like all fragile things, it could be torn apart.
Then came a smudge.
The days turned into weeks, and the once-bright uniform bore the scars of their work—frayed and dulled by the constant wear of others’ pain. This has become part of their daily routine—red ink from endless notes, restless tears, and worn-down seams. Each new stain represented a moment where their strength faltered. And though they remained strong, a quiet voice began to ask: How long can I do this for?
The shine of the white clothing that these prophets wear reflects the problems they bear. As they conduct multiple sessions, they encounter various tribulations that people deal with. If they allow themselves to be affected, then they are defeated. Then, how could they help others heal when they, too, were starting to unravel?
They lost count on the days inside, and the white uniform was no longer recognizable. It was stained and torn, and became a patchwork of invisible wounds. Then, they found themselves staring at their reflection, but this time, they did not see a prophet—they saw someone who had given everything, and had nothing left to give.
They are bound to experience internal conflicts, and all the struggles unveiled during sessions that can take a toll on them. Due to the constant exposure to their people’s traumatic experiences, they are prone to burnout, compassion fatigue, and experience trauma as well. This was not a grand realization, or a moment of clarity—it was a simple thought; they were not alone. They had spent so much time carrying the weight of others that they had forgotten their own need for healing. In that moment, they allowed themselves to crumble.
The next day, their uniform did not magically repair itself. The stains remained, the tears still visible, and the seams were still worn, but they no longer felt like a burden. Each stain and each tear was a mark of empathy of having walked alongside others in their darkest moments. It reminded them that true healing was not being untouched by pain; it was about carrying that pain, wearing it, and still moving forward. They knew their journey was far from over because the stains would remain, and the tears might reflow—but so would their strength.
Then came compassion.
Written by: Celine Kayeth Entoma & Gerson Galido