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If you give vets a choice for tomorrow afternoon’s consult list, which would you take?
A consulting list of diarrhoea, dermatology, rechecks and vaccines on rinse and repeat?
Or six euthanasias?
I ask this question often, and anecdotally, about 90 percent of the vets I know choose the euthanasias.
Not because we are morbid. Not because we are burned out. And not just because we are bored of white Staffies with ear infections (ok, well maybe this one a little bit).
But mostly we choose them because most of us genuinely find euthanasia meaningful.
There is something profoundly grounding about helping an animal leave the world peacefully. About holding space for a family in one of their worst moments. About knowing that you reduced suffering in a way that was clean and kind and steady.
That feeling, even though it is not pleasant, is satisfying.
This is compassion satisfaction.
And yet if you scan the professional narrative around veterinary medicine (or any other healthcare), you would think these types of activities are the primary reason we are all collapsing under the weight of “compassion fatigue.” (I keep compassion fatigue in quotation marks intentionally.)
Because most of what people are describing when they say compassion fatigue is actually empathy fatigue.
Empathy is feeling with someone. Your nervous system mirrors theirs. Their distress becomes your distress. That is exhausting.
Compassion is feeling for someone. You care deeply. You want to help. But you do not step into the emotional quicksand with them. Compassion allows you to stay regulated enough to act well.
Compassion can hurt, but it is not inherently depleting.
In fact, when framed consciously, compassion can be deeply replenishing.
There is data in healthcare literature showing that compassion satisfaction is a measurable construct. It correlates with LOWER burnout and HIGHER professional quality of life. People who report high compassion satisfaction are less likely to experience the destructive side of fatigue.
Which brings me to the uncomfortable part: our profession talks endlessly about how hard it is.
The stress. The complaints. The financial constraints, unrealistic expectations, and emotional toll. And yes, these are real and I don’t advocate for toxic positivity or pretending these aren’t real challenges.
But what we focus on, we reinforce.
If the dominant narrative in your clinic – veterinary or human – is how awful things are, your brain will become exquisitely skilled at spotting evidence that confirms it.
It is the old proverb. Which wolf wins? So how do we consciously feed the other one without slipping into toxic positivity or performative gratitude?
Instead of only asking, what did we have to deal with today, ask, what did we get to do today.
Not in a cheesy way, in a specific way.
I got to ease pain while a family said goodbye.
I got to help that person make a decision they had been agonising over for weeks.
I got to watch that anxious patient finally relax with the new protocol.
At the end of a tough consult, pause for ten seconds before moving to the next room. Literally say to yourself, that mattered. Or ask yourself why it mattered. If you can’t find an answer, ask someone else from outside the profession.
At the end of the week, ask your team one question. Where did you feel proud of how you showed up?
Make it normal to articulate satisfaction out loud.
Teach teams how to stay in compassionate mode. How to regulate. How to care without absorbing. Or at the very least, how to check in with themselves about whether they are using empathy in the moments that need it, or if it is the default response.
When someone says, I am emotionally wrecked after that consult, ask gently, were you with them or for them?
That awareness alone changes how people experience their day.
We already measure revenue. We measure consult numbers, average transaction value.
What if once a week you also measured meaningful moments?
One euthanasia done well. One conflict navigated calmly. One scared owner who left reassured.
The point is not to deny the hard parts, but to balance the lens.
Because if you ask most of our profession quietly, away from the social media noise, they will tell you the same thing.
There are parts of this job that are extraordinary. Not glamorous or headline grabbing. But deeply, quietly extraordinary. If we do not actively name and celebrate those parts, the negativity bias will swallow them.
It is a discipline, a choice we can make.
And if we want to combat so called compassion fatigue, we cannot just reduce stress, we have to amplify meaning.
The wolf we feed grows. The question is, which one are we feeding in your clinic?
Dr Jess Moore-Jones is an occasional vet, a challenge-the-status-quo type of business owner, a no BS-consultant, and an engaged mum (except at 5am when she's a very mediocre mum). Having led teams large and small, from animal shelters to zoo departments to specialist hospitals, Jess is slightly annoyingly obsessed with keeping vets engaged, fulfilled and resilient in our profession. After a leadership career of transforming toxic cultures, reducing staff burnout, and helping nurture the self-awareness of young leaders, Dr Jess decided that she could support more vets by bringing her skills to any organisation that had the courage to recognise that they needed some help. Now she runs Unleashed Coaching and Consulting, with the sole aim of Keeping Veterinary Professionals in the Veterinary Profession. Unleashed works with veterinary teams, individuals and leaders to build resilient teams, engaged cultures, and thriving businesses without any of the academic psychobabble or politically correct but unrealistic advice you could have googled.
Connect with Jessica:
Every day, your reception team shapes client relationships, practice revenue and the overall client experience, often without the training or support they need. It's 8:52am. There are 3 clients in the waiting room, a dog barking at the scales, a nurse waiting on a...
