Сомнения новичков в социальной работе: почему чувство неловкости — это норма профессии

By Rob Mitchell There’s something about the end of August and the start of September. Even now, decades after leaving university, I can feel September creeping in more than any other month. The air is different. Stationery appears in supermarket aisles. Children try on school shoes. And some colleagues who are parents and carers return to work with barely disguised glee! Early autumn always feels like another beginning. All these years on each September immediately evokes memories of my first weeks as a social work student. I can still remember the knot in my stomach every time our course leader walked into a lecture theatre. I was convinced that I would hear the following: “Is there a Robert here? Yes, you. I’m afraid there’s been an administrative error. You weren’t supposed to be on this course. Social work? You? Actually, university, Robert? What were you doing even thinking of applying?” It never happened, of course. But I was waiting for it. Maybe it was the working-class instinct that tells you not to get above yourself , or maybe it was the Catholic guilt kicking in? Not feeling you belong in social work Whatever its origins, I never quite believed I belonged or deserved to belong. I was the bloke who failed at school and worked at the motorway service station selling pasties, chocolate bars and emergency bunches of flowers for a living. In truth, I wasn’t especially good at that either. Despite a lot of years now within the profession, I’m not sure that this nagging voice (the imposter) has ever left me. In fact, it's often louder than ever. I’m now a principal social worker. I sometimes sit at tables that years ago I wouldn’t have known existed. If I had known about those tables, I’d probably have been suspicious of them, and even more suspicious of me sitting there in the middle of it all, thinking I was somebody. Yet there’s still a little voice that whispers that someone will eventually realise they’ve made another administrative error. They know I’m a fraud. They know I am blagging it. Is there still time to run? But despite the deep-rooted doubt, as the years have gone by, the imposter has become a bit of an ally: an insensitive one at times, but an ally, nevertheless. Why social work should never feel comfortable I have come to realise that social work should never feel completely comfortable. We’re invited into people’s lives, sometimes welcomed, often tolerated and occasionally resisted, at moments when something may have gone badly wrong. We arrive when relationships, or even bones, have fractured, when hope has thinned and lives are laid bare; where loss, despair, illness and anguish can leave humans howling with distress, and breathing, but not really living. So perhaps doubt and doubt about us is exactly the right response to that? The person sitting opposite doesn’t need someone overflowing with certainty or performing confidence. They need another human being who recognises just how vulnerable we all are, including themselves as the social worker. I remember the burning embarrassment of a brilliant social work student I worked with a few years ago when I was a practice educator. When visiting a young mother who was grieving the death of her baby daughter, the student cried when the mother handed over some of their daughter's clothes to be donated to other families. The student said the mother put her arm around her and held her, silently. The student questioned whether social work was for her as a result of this. I remember wanting to cry when she told me this story and reassured her that her response was real, raw and human, and really, what are we if we are not that as social workers? Before we talk about strengths-based social work or even relational social work, let’s make sure we are confident that human social work happens every time. A sister's lesson My late sister Kitty had social workers for the last twenty years of her life. One day I suggested she ought to speak to one of them about their punctuality and general approach to helping her. According to Kitty, this social worker was always late, often chaotic and rarely seemed particularly organised. Kitty looked at me as though I’d missed the point entirely. “Bob,” she said, “she’s the best social worker I’ve ever had.” I remember feeling surprised. “But she’s always late," I replied. “So am I," said Kitty. “She seems disorganised," I retorted. “So am I," Kitty replied, before dismantling my argument completely. “I’m probably the world’s worst blind person," she said. "I can’t do Braille. It took me two weeks to completely mess up the training hundreds of people had put into Wilma (her guide dog) because I felt sorry for her having to work all the time, so I fed her biscuits. I don’t want some super-duper, all-achieving social worker who thinks they are here to sort my life out. I want the one who turns up, apologises for being late because life got in the way or they’d had trouble with their kids, and then treats me like a human being.” That was Kitty. She had very little time for perfection. She had endless time for humanity. Forgetting about what matters in social work A friend I met on my first day of my social work course nearly thirty years ago recalls an incident during his first placement, when he watched a very experienced approved social worker (ASW) visit the care home where he was based. Sitting comfortably in the manager’s chair, surrounded by staff, the social worker began recalling people he’d “sectioned” over the years from that very care home. Twenty minutes of stories about some of the most traumatic moments in other people’s lives, retold as entertainment. My friend quietly stood up, walked out of the room, and decided he never wanted to be in that social worker’s company again. That story has stayed with me because I often wonder if that’s what happens when we become so comfortable in our own skin and expertise that we forget what those moments actually felt like for the people living through them. And maybe that’s the greater danger of ridding ourselves of the imposter. Of course, imposter syndrome can become unhealthy. Left unchecked, it can rob us of confidence, stop us speaking up and leave us doubting abilities that others can plainly see. Competence matters. Confidence matters. People deserve social workers who know the law, understand their practice, make difficult decisions and, above all, have the skills to ensure the person’s voice remains the loudest voice in the room. 'Social work lives in ambiguity because people do' But perhaps certainty should always travel with humility. Perhaps expertise should always leave room for, “I don’t know.” Perhaps the little voice asking, “What are you doing here and where are you going with this?” isn’t always a weakness. Maybe it’s the beginning of reflection. The imposter reminds us that we might not always know exactly what we’ll say next because every situation is unique. Social work is never identically replicated, given this. Social work lives in ambiguity because people do. We meet people in uncertainty, fear and confusion. It would be strange if we never felt uncertain ourselves. More than that, it wouldn’t be human. So as another September arrives, thousands of new social work students will be wondering whether they somehow slipped through admissions by mistake. They didn’t. They’re exactly where they should be. They’re doubting themselves, wondering whether they belong and doing the best they can. And it’s a feeling that they will hopefully learn to navigate, but not fully eradicate, because it’s a safety valve and a vital check and balance. So welcome to profession. Thank you for choosing social work. We know this is where you belong. Rob Mitchell is a co-author, blogger and podcaster for Social Work, Cats & Rocket Science