I thought I ran out of Tears, Mr.

Tears are not something most people consciously track. As a professional school counselor, however, tears are a normal part of my workday. Most of the tears I witness are attached to frustration, grief, or displaced anger — rarely requiring me to show my own emotions. Some school years, my work consisted almost entirely of responsive services: holding space for the feelings of others, practicing restraint with my words, staying overly conscious of my behaviors, and learning how to carry weight quietly. Over time, that gets heavy.

I am in a new workspace now, and many—if not all—of these frustrations have shifted from regular to rare. I’m challenged, but no longer emotionally attached to the things that used to drain me. Instead, I’m focused on my own professional growth and progress, which feels healthy and expected. Still, it’s been a long time since I noticed myself crying. Recognizing that made me realize something else: my triggers for tears have almost always been frustration or anger, rarely sadness.

I have often observed others shedding tears of joy and wondered what that feels like. At times, I questioned whether my emotional experiences were somehow incomplete because joy had never expressed itself that way for me. During 2025, there were moments that warranted emotional release, yet I spoke about them calmly, casually—without fully acknowledging the depth of the pain involved.

In a recent conversation with a friend, I realized it had been nearly a year since I began this blog—and since anything had brought me to tears. March 30, 2025. I worried that my work, or perhaps unacknowledged trauma, had made me numb. Shrugging my shoulders, I stated comfortably, “I ran out of tears.” I face grief daily, and even when I watched several loved ones express grief deeply, it was somehow manageable for me—until October 30, 2025.

We often don’t notice the routines and relationships that stabilize us until they are no longer there.

That day, I was unprepared for what I believed to be a familiar routine. I usually do most things alone and hadn’t thought I would need support—but I did. I’m not sure how to package what I felt in that moment, but the experience was undeniable. I know now that that loss allowed me to confirm that I did have the ability to match my emotions to appropriate situations.

It was instant and out of my control. I sobbed, my breath stopped. I felt helpless. I tried to reset my thoughts and held my hand over my heart, but the tears came. The words that were shared to attempt to comfort me are somehow muffled—most likely, I couldn't hear them over my own cry. My focus was distracted, trying to process, trying to explain, and in many moments trying to track if I was at fault. Had I missed something? Was I being selfish? I’ll never have those answers. A part of me may always carry a sense of fault.

What I know with certainty is this: I had not run out of tears. I had simply not yet encountered the moment that required them. And I was not ready to see him go.

2009-2025