Just Work

© Remla Parthasarathy, 2025, Published on the NY Crime Victims Legal Help/Empire Justice Center blog with the author’s permission.

Dedicated to colleagues in the field with the hope that they have the tools and support to help them cope with the vicarious trauma and compassion fatigue they may be experiencing.

Content Warning: Domestic violence, sexual abuse.

She was still sitting in her office well past 5pm on Friday, knowing she’d be late for dinner, when she reached the conclusion that the question she dreaded most in the world was the simple, “How’s work?”

There was a time when she would have bestowed that distinction on the ubiquitous first date, first meeting introductory icebreaker, “So, what do you do for a living?” asked either casually and instinctively, or intentionally in a way that was meant to show you believed you could know the essence of a person by finding out what they did with the majority of their time. But she was certain that was no longer the case. 

She thought back and remembered how her stomach used to flip and her chest tightened a bit whenever someone had asked, “What do you do?” She would rather have answered anything, ANYTHING – even, “How much do you weigh?” or “When are you finally going to find a guy and get married?” Oh, how that question had once made her wish she was a better liar, or the type of woman who could get away with a bright smile, a slow wink, and cheeky, “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.” Because she considered sincerity her superpower, she had once answered proudly, “Something I’m passionate about,” and assumed that would satisfy, but the resultant expectant gaze and intrigue that arose were things she couldn’t dance around, so she never tried that again.

It was not that she was or had ever been ashamed of what she did. Quite the opposite. It was that saying, “I’m a lawyer who represents victims of domestic violence,” was usually a conversation stopper. On hearing this, some looked at her with genuine admiration, but that only embarrassed her. Most were able to contort their faces into something resembling interest and mutter a platitude like, “That must be very rewarding,” as a simple way of dropping the subject. Some couldn’t change the topic fast enough, while others showed the disappointment of a conversation hitting a dead end.

A slight smile momentarily played at the corners of her lips as she remembered this one guy at a New Year’s Eve party well over a decade ago – slick, handsome, charming, confident, and someone who knew he was all these things and more – who didn’t seem to notice her at all until he overheard her mention that she had recently graduated from law school.

“You’re a lawyer?” He suddenly looked interested and she felt him checking her out. “I’m an associate over at Tolliver & Meyers.” She could tell she was supposed to be impressed that he belonged to one of the top law firms in the city. “That’s cool. I just started as a Domestic Violence Staff Attorney at Legal Aid.” He had literally turned on his heels and left without a word.

“He couldn’t have run faster if I had said I had herpes,” she had complained to a friend later. “I think he left skid marks.”

“He was probably afraid that you’d see right through him and realize he’s an abusive prick himself.”

She liked to think that her friend was right.

While these disinterested, uncomfortable, or negative reactions made her heart sink, she almost preferred those to the self-righteous or ignorant responses of people who said things like, “I don’t know why anyone stays with someone who treats them that way. If my partner laid a hand on me, I’d break up with them immediately!” When not at work, she hated being in a position where she felt she had to explain that leaving – no, escaping – an abusive relationship isn’t that simple. Hated trying to make someone – a neighbor, a hairdresser, an acquaintance – understand that her clients were doing the best they could to keep themselves and their children safe. That calling the police wasn’t a guaranteed solution. That leaving under good circumstances is tough enough, but doing so when you don’t have resources and are afraid of the person you’re leaving can be extraordinarily difficult if not impossible to do safely. She had tried a few times with varying degrees of success, but walking the line between raising awareness and preaching was a delicate balance that took up too much energy, and she preferred to save it for the job.

She recalled that although it had taken her a while, she had eventually figured out that it was a lot easier substituting the term “Domestic Violence” with “Family Law”.  People would assume she was doing run-of-the-mill divorces where soon to be ex-couples argued about assets and who gets the living room furniture or the handmade Turkish carpet that they excitedly bought during their honeymoon when honoring wedding vows seemed easy. She never mentioned that over a quarter of divorces were linked to domestic abuse, but she did occasionally use a line a colleague in a moment of frustration had told her about divorcing couples: “If they’re rich, they fight about money, if they don’t have money, they fight about the children, if they don’t have children, they fight about pets, if they don’t have pets, they fight about the Tupperware.” That usually got nods or chuckles and allowed the conversation to organically shift directions without people feeling the need to run away from her. She always felt a tiny flutter of sadness that she couldn’t tell the whole truth, but it was worth it.

But now, seated in front of her open laptop, staring into oblivion, with the sounds of coworkers leaving for the weekend barely registering, she was sure that “How’s work?” was so much worse.

Most people, she assessed, only asked that question rhetorically, and she was grateful for this. A knowing look and a “No rest for the wicked” quip did the trick. There were people who never bothered asking her the question at all. Maybe they were disinterested, maybe they never asked anyone about their work, or maybe they were uncomfortable because her professional area hit too close to home. Regardless, she was relieved not to have to deal with that inquiry.

There were a few, she knew, who asked, “How’s work?” wanting her to complain about something – the heavy caseload, the lack of resources, the abysmal pay – as a pretext for giving her unsolicited advice. People who thought a law degree from a top-tier university shouldn’t be wasted in the non-profit sector fell into this category. Her neighbor Mr. Benson was one of them.

“A smart girl like you shouldn’t be wasting her time at Legal Aid,” he said often, his wrinkled face and pale gray eyes set in a “I’m a wise old man and you should listen to me” attitude. “You should be making the big bucks like your brother.”

“I like what I do, Mr. Benson,” she had told him early on, though it did little to assuage. “It may sound cliché, but I like being part of a social justice movement and making a difference in people’s lives.”

“You want to be a do-gooder?” He had continued unperturbed. “Volunteer. Be on a board. Write a large check. Trust me. You should be doing so much more.” 

She remembered a time when she used to be able to laugh it off, but this had become more difficult to do. Now, receiving advice from people, even well-intentioned ones, was annoying. She found herself becoming defensive, as if she needed to justify her career choice with these interactions, and preventing herself from responding in a rude, abrupt or explosive manner was exhausting. 

There was, she knew, a small group of family and friends who truly cared, and when they asked, “How’s work?” they meant, “How are you?” These were the folks who would listen attentively, give her time to share what she could share, and when she didn’t have it in her to say more than a few words, they would either let her sit in their quiet understanding and be, or switch topics and recount funny things that happened to them, ensuring she would laugh and feel less alone.

She loved this group, but being honest with them was becoming more and more challenging.

She worked in a field that was privy to the darker side of family and intimate relationships. She got to see what was behind The Closed Door. How could she make those who care for her understand that she knew the horrible and appalling things that some people did to those they purport to love? She had clients who weren’t physically abused but were so terrorized and controlled by their partners that they couldn’t even sit down or leave a room without permission. She had clients, both male and female, whose partners got drunk Friday nights and assailed them with verbal attacks before physically assaulting them with fists, kicks, or weapons strategically aimed to do no harm to her clients’ faces so that on Monday morning, no one would be the wiser. She knew of cases where men forced their girlfriend or wife to satiate them sexually by threatening to rape their child if she didn’t.

Her loved ones didn’t want to know what she knew. She didn’t want to know what she knew. She just didn’t know how to tell them this.

In the years that she worked, first as an advocate in a rape crisis program, and later as a domestic violence attorney, she had heard hundreds and hundreds of similar stories. Cases that were devastating and heartbreaking, terrible and terrifying. They were each unique yet all the same. Unfathomable and unimaginable, yet commonplace. They haunted her. She’d sometimes wake from a nightmare in the early hours before dawn. Unable to fall back asleep, she’d turn the T.V. on to Boomerang because of the childish belief that nothing bad can happen when cartoons are on. She sometimes would get to work on Mondays an hour early to assure herself that a client who she had unofficially assessed as being at high risk of danger had not been hurt over the weekend. And although she wasn’t yet ready to psychoanalyze, she suspected that her work had impacted every one of her romantic relationships.

This was the cost of doing this work. Of helping people be safe in their own homes. No one really wanted to hear about that.

She had heard that too many professionals who did family violence and sexual assault work – attorneys, prosecutors, advocates, social workers, case managers, counselors – left the field because of burnout, but she knew that wasn’t completely accurate. Burnout was a phenomenon that could happen to anyone in any profession. Good people were leaving domestic violence and sexual assault work primarily because of vicarious trauma and compassion fatigue. She and her friends, many of whom were working in similar fields, made a point to get together regularly not only because, well, they were friends, but also because it was self-care. They understood what the others were going through and helped each other stay strong so they all could keep doing what they believed they were called to do.

The problem was, she didn’t know how she was doing.

She admitted to herself that lately, she’d been more quiet, more withdrawn, more tired. Less patient, less able to access her compassion, more irritated and easily frustrated. And more and more uncertain if what she was doing was making a difference. Last weekend, she’d been searching the internet late into the night, trying to locate someone from high school. He was a boy in the same graduating class, not a close friend but someone she sometimes shared lunch with as they both were quiet and shy, preferring the library to the more populated areas of school. Days before graduation, this boy had disclosed that his father was violent towards his mother and was increasingly becoming physically abusive to him.

“It’s getting worse,” the boy had whispered to her one afternoon. “As soon as I graduate, I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” She had been completely overwhelmed with the gravity of the situation, the likes of which she had not experienced at that point of her life, and she had felt powerless to help.

“Anywhere. I hope I can convince my mom to come with me, but I can’t be at home anymore. It’s not safe.”

The boy never showed up for the graduation ceremony and she never heard of him again. She wasn’t clear exactly why after all these years locating this boy had become important, but a part of her felt that she needed to pay homage to the person whose plight and whose strength, unbeknownst to him, had led her to this vocation, and a part of her needed to see if – no, make sure that – his life had turned out well. But with a last name as common as “Brown”, she had had no luck. It felt like he had disappeared from her world, and with him, that the seed that blossomed into her life’s purpose was somehow also disappearing. 

The unexpected “Goodnight!” from a passing coworker woke her from her reverie. Glancing at the time on her phone, she knew she’d have to leave if she wanted to go home and change before heading to the restaurant. She closed her laptop and braced herself as she got up from the desk, no clue of what she’d say when asked about work tonight.

***

Making her way across the restaurant through the mingled aromas of freshly baked bread, garlic, and the smoky deliciousness of wood-fired pizza, she reached the banquet room reserved for an aunt’s birthday dinner. One of the benefits of having a large family in town: A Friday celebration was not a huge inconvenience for most of them. She was less than an hour late, on time for most of her family, but several bottles of wine must’ve been emptied because the uncles were already at the Extra Happy & Loud stage. Younger cousins were huddled around a couple of tables, laughing hard at the devices in their hands, while some of the older cousins were devouring what looked liked stuffed mushrooms and bruschetta, and her father was nearby trying to get the waiter’s attention, plainly wanting him to bring out more food. She stood in the doorway, surveying the group before heading towards a table where her mother and two aunts were seated, nibbling on finger foods, deep in conversation. Food could wait; right now she needed a glass of wine and to be enveloped in a maternal air of comfort and love.

Halfway to the table, she was stopped by a high-pitched confident voice.

“Hey Lily! There you are!”

Aunt Sonia was the most likely to have prevented her from quietly slipping in unnoticed. Sonia gave her a thorough once over before giving a hug, the warmth and genuineness of which was indirectly proportional to the loudness and enthusiasm of her exclamations.

“It’s so good to see you! How are you? It’s been such a long time. You look good. Lost weight, I see. And your hair! You let it grow out again. This length suits you.” Sonia pushed a strand of Lily’s waist-length hair behind Lily’s right ear while still looking her up and down, bombarding her with words, not waiting for a reply. Lily just smiled and nodded and smiled again. If sincerity was her superpower, her smile was her shield. Though her smiles didn’t reach her eyes tonight, Sonia wouldn’t notice. All of Lily’s friends, regardless of religion and nationality, seemed to have at least one member of their family like Sonia. That fact gave Lily some comfort and the capacity to deal.

“So, how’s work?”

***

It hadn’t been a bad week. She was able to get a five-year Order of Protection for one of her clients, settle a tough custody matter without a hearing, and reach a temporary visitation arrangement in a divorce case that was a long way from being resolved. It hadn’t been a bad week, except for Himari.

Two weeks ago, Daniel had slumped into the chair across from Lily. “Got a moment, Lil’? I could use your help.” Daniel was also in the Domestic Violence Unit, but he often took cases involving immigrant victims who were eligible to apply for citizenship status through the Violence Against Women Act. He looked as worried as he sounded. “I need you to talk to a client. I can’t seem to get her to trust me.”

“Oh, please. Everyone trusts you.” Because most domestic violence clients are women, people assume that they prefer female attorneys, but, in fact, some female clients want a male attorney – someone who they think won’t be taken in or intimidated by their lying/manipulative/calculating partners. Daniel fit that bill perfectly. His looks, his build, his demeanor, his age, his manner all conveyed competence and assurance. Lily had seen Daniel work his magic with clients time and again, getting them to understand aspects of legal proceedings that they didn’t like, or calming them down before they had to testify to the unspeakable things that their partners did to them, in front of those very same partners.

“Can you come with me to meet her? Please?” Daniel’s voice had an anxious edge to it. “I can’t get her to hear me and I’m concerned about her.”

They were at the domestic violence program’s nonresidential office within the hour.

“Himari met her husband while she was visiting friends in L.A.” Daniel had outlined during the ride over. “She was 19 and it was her first time traveling to the United States. Apparently he swept her off her feet, taking her to see cherry blossoms in the Japanese Garden and dinner at a Michelin Star sushi restaurant. The typical romance and roses.” Daniel’s voice was scornful. “She was planning to go back home before her travel visa expired, but he convinced her to move here, to marry him and promised to help her get U.S. citizenship. A few months after the marriage, he started with the abuse and violence.”

“So, she has no family in the States and her only friends are in California?”

“Yep,” Daniel confirmed.

It was textbook. Abusive partners rarely looked or acted like abusers when they were courting, and they often waited to exert significant coercive control until their partner was isolated, dependent on them, or so invested in the relationship that escaping was hard.

“She’s six months pregnant. She got referred to the DV program by her doctor because Himari was worried about the unborn baby.” Daniel’s voice got quiet. “Her husband wasn’t gentle with her in bed.”

Lily shivered in revulsion, erasing the thought away. Even though sexual abuse is part of the domestic violence dynamic, clients and professionals alike find it difficult to talk about. It was easier to discuss emotional, financial, and even physical abuse than try to parse which sexual activities were consensual and which were coerced or forced.

“She’s been staying at the shelter for a few weeks. I’m trying to help her file a VAWA self-petition so she can stay in the States without her husband’s support, but she’s changed her mind and wants to go home. It was an effort, but I got her to agree to meet us at the non-res program. I’m hoping you can develop a rapport with her and get her to understand that she doesn’t have to go back to him.”

“Ah, you think she needs to hear, ‘You can do it on your own’ from another woman who at least looks like an immigrant?” Lily tried to joke. “I feel used.”

Daniel didn’t smile. “If it works,” he said softly.

Daniel and Lily were led by one of the program’s staff members to a small conference room where a young, pretty, and determined woman was pacing the floor, her hand resting on her baby bump, a packed bag resting at the foot of a nearby chair. An interpreter was with her at Daniel’s request, but Himari spoke English directed at Daniel.

“I want to leave. I go back to Jon. He promise to change. He will help me and the baby. I do not need your help now.”

And that was it. Although they spent another fifteen minutes talking to Himari, explaining her rights, and letting her know that she could request the court grant her an Order of Protection that allowed Jon to be with her but require him not to harm her in any way, Himari’s only focus was going home, and Lily knew that there was nothing that could be done to change her mind. Daniel didn’t need Lily to develop a rapport with Himari; what he needed was to hear that he was doing his job by looking out for Himari’s interests, letting her know her options, and empowering her to make her own decisions.

Lily knew – and so did Daniel – that they couldn’t be upset with their clients for returning to someone they love, someone who swears that they will change and never hurt them again. Most clients don’t want the relationship to end; they want the abuse to. And the abuse doesn’t always end when the relationship ends; leaving doesn’t always mean safety. Once no longer in the relationship, stalking, threats, and intimidation can get worse; clients often return because of this. In fact, some clients, knowing that their abusive partner will get visitation and perhaps shared or even sole custody, decide to remain in the abusive relationship so that they can better protect the children. They, the professionals, may have an idea of how their clients’ lives can play out – broken promises, broken hearts, possibly broken bones – but they aren’t always right; sometimes things work out. They could only do what they could, all that they could, and let the clients know, “You are believed. You deserve a life free from violence. And we are here if you need our help again.” Lily made sure the interpreter told these exact words to Himari before they left the room: “We are here if you need our help again.”

Lily could see that Daniel was dejected. “You did everything you could.”

Daniel shook his head. “Maybe if I suggested she talk to other women who went through the process, she would’ve trusted me.”

“She trusted you, Daniel. But you gotta see that she’s more terrified of leaving than she is of staying with him.” Lily felt a heaviness in her heart.

“I know, but…”

“He’s telling her he loves her,” Lily cut off Daniel’s protestation. “He promises he’ll pay for her parents to come to visit when the baby is born. Of course she wants to believe him.”

“It’s going to happen again, you know he’s going to…”

“She has a baby on the way and all her family is in Japan!” Lily’s voice rose in frustration. “She has no job and no idea how to be a mother on her own.” As Daniel’s face fell, Lily’s voice dropped. “She knows she can call you if she needs help again.”  

“I know. I know.” Daniel looked away. “For some reason, this one just got to me.”

Lily could sense Daniel’s feelings of helplessness. She felt it begin to seep into her too and immediately tried to cast it off with an affirmation: People leave abusive relationships safely every day. With the help of advocates and attorneys, with the help of friends and family. People leave abusive relationships safely every day. But it wasn’t working. The faces of two women were surfacing in her mind. Norma and Sia. Two recent victims of domestic violence who were killed by their former partners. After they had obtained Orders of Protection. After they had separated and filed for divorce. After they had done everything right. She knew The Justice System didn’t let these women down, that the persons responsible were their abusive partners, but the reality didn’t provide any solace. Neither woman had been her client, but she had learned about their stories after their murders, had mourned their deaths along with others in the Domestic Violence Community, had lighted candles for them – and for all the other intimate partner homicide victims – at domestic violence vigils, and had said prayers that went unfulfilled. She closed her eyes, blinking their faces memorized from photos on the obituary pages in the local news from her mind.

“I’m sorry, Daniel,” she said. “Sometimes, it feels like we just can’t win.”

Late that Friday afternoon, a few hours before the party, Daniel had stepped into Lily’s office and closed the door.

“She lost the baby.”

A split second of confusion, then Lily’s mouth gaped. Her head swam. How? What happened? Was it Jon? What did he do? How is Himari? Where is she? Were the police called? Have criminal charges been filed? But nothing came out. She continued to stare open mouthed at Daniel who stood unmoving, hand against the closed door, saying nothing, eyes piercing. Suddenly, a sensation of heat, pure hot raging heat, ran through her body from her toes to her head. She felt an urge to bang on the desk, break the desk, break everything in sight. But she didn’t move. She wanted to scream, to wail, to bellow, to roar, till everything inside her was let loose, till the building shook, till the skies fell down. But she sat motionless, saying nothing. And as suddenly as it came, the wave of heat dissipated, leaving her feeling cold and drained. She wanted to get up and give Daniel a hug. One that conveyed that she understood and shared his pain, shared his sorrow. One that communicated that this was in no way his fault, and that despite this tragedy, what they were doing was good and valuable and important. One that transmitted strength, unity, and kindness. But she stayed seated, unable to stand, and stared at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

***

Aunt Sonia looked at Lily expectantly. For two seconds, Lily’s face seemed to freeze. Then it broadened into her trademark big smile, though it still didn’t quite reach her eyes. Lily shook her head slightly and gave a dismissive shrug.

“It’s just work.” Then excused herself and headed to her mother.
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If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, please contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline or find resources on NY Crime Victims Legal Help’s Trauma Resources page.