Loss and sacrifice

I didn’t understand sacrifice until I understood loss. I was eight, it was a Tuesday. We were settling in to learn about American history when the principal came into our classroom. She made eye contact with me for a moment and I still remember the look on her face. I thought I was in trouble at first, but then she asked my teacher to move our entire class into the room across the hall. We followed and she asked us if any of our parents worked in New York City. Several kids raised their hands, and they were quietly but urgently ushered out the room. Some had tears in their eyes. A few I never saw again.

It’s been almost 25 years. Long enough that people I work with hadn’t been born yet. Long enough that the faces of those kids I never saw again have long since faded in memory. But I’ll never forget the look on my teacher’s face when she tried to explain a terrorist attack to third-graders whose lesson was supposed to be about the Mayflower.

That day defined the lives of millions. It defined mine—or at least a large part of mine. That day, I learned what loss meant. My parents didn’t work in the city, but both knew people in the towers. My mom was on the phone with colleagues at the moment of impact. On Monday, I wanted to be a paleontologist who would dig up fossils, or a veterinarian who would care for animals. On Wednesday, I wanted to be a firefighter who would help care for people.

Service and sacrifice

As the weeks since stretched into months, and the months grew to years, I learned about sacrifice and service. I went from wanting to be a firefighter to a soldier. I went from wanting to be a soldier to a medic. From wanting to be a medic to being a diplomat, then a spy, then a soldier again. My entire childhood and early adulthood was framed around service and sacrifice. It was inculcated in me every single day. The internal narrative of my life was to serve my country, serve the people. It was to make sure that eight-year-olds wouldn’t have to learn about loss or have tears in their eyes because their mom or dad may not come home again.

Eventually, I found my way to civil service. It was my life trajectory, and I told myself that service and sacrifice were one and the same. I put in 50- or 60-hour weeks; I was in the office as the sun rose and left it as it set. I went into work every single day during the pandemic because what I worked on was too sensitive to do from home, and because my colleagues had children to care for, so I could pick up the slack. I should pick up the slack. Service was sacrifice. And as time went on, I wore myself thin. I told myself that everyone did this. Everyone sacrificed their free time, their sleep, their friendships. But I slowly realized that you cannot effectively serve if you sacrifice too much. If your wellbeing slips, how well you serve does too.

Understanding service

I learned that lesson too late. I was performing well, but I wasn’t sleeping, I gained an unhealthy amount of weight, I had panic attacks. My friendships and relationships suffered. My mental health deteriorated. I had burnt out. I left the government at a time when I was on a trajectory toward expertise and leadership. It shocked my colleagues, shocked my family, and shocked myself. I started to question my why. I remembered the eightyear old kid who wanted to dig in the dirt. I remembered the part of me that wanted to care for others. I came to realize that you don’t have to sacrifice your mind, your body, or your soul to serve. And so I reframed for myself what service looked like.

In your own lives, you may not be trying to prevent terror attacks, drug traffickers, or spies from hurting your loved ones. But you may be struggling to balance what it means to serve your family or your community, and what it means to care for yourself. I suggest you find your why–the core driver of your care for others.

Taking care of self

But I urge you to remind yourself that you cannot achieve your why if you cannot care for yourself, too. You need to rest, you need to eat well, you need to find joy in your life in order to serve with grace and balance. And for those who would tell you that service demands sacrifice, you need look no further to rebut them than this line by Seneca:

It is the essence of spitefulness to say that nothing can be a benefit which does not cause some inconvenience to the giver. – Seneca, On Benefits, 6.13.

John Kuna is a Stoic prokopton, writer, and dog lover. He likes digging deep into Stoic theory, but also writing accessible and inspiring Stoic content.

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