Gabby's story: Holding space in chaos - supporting a colleague through crisis

With years of experience navigating complex employee relations, Gabby brings a human lens to policy, always striving to balance empathy with accountability. Her reflections are shaped by real-life challenges, resilience, and a belief in the power of listening and standing up for what’s right.

There are moments in your career that test not just your professional capacity, but your humanity. Supporting a colleague through a crisis - especially one rooted in addiction and mental health - is one of those moments. This is about navigating the chaos, the emotion, and the moral complexity of being there for someone when the systems around you feel rigid, and the path forward is anything but clear.

I didn’t set out to be a lifeline. I just knew I couldn’t turn away.

It started slowly, almost unnoticeably. The pandemic changed everything - routines, relationships, resilience. For one colleague, it became a tipping point. Alcohol crept in quietly, then took hold with force. What began as subtle signs - missed meetings, vague excuses, emotional volatility - soon became unmistakable. The deterioration was rapid and raw.

Each day brought something new. A call at 8am, incoherent and tearful. A message at midnight, angry and confused. Sometimes it wasn’t just me - colleagues, team members, even senior officers were pulled into the orbit of crisis. The behaviour was unpredictable, the emotions intense. We were all trying to hold space for someone who was unravelling, while still holding up the service we were there to deliver.

I found myself leaning heavily on my own resilience. Not just for me, but for my team. I had to be strong, even when I didn’t feel it. I had to be calm, even when I was exhausted. I had to be present, even when I wanted to retreat. There was no manual for this. Just instinct, empathy, and a quiet hope that somehow, we’d get through it.

There were days when I didn’t know what version of my colleague I’d be speaking to. Some mornings started with calm, others with chaos. One day it was sobbing and apologies, the next it was anger and accusations. The phonecalls came at all hours - not just to me, but to others across the service. It was relentless.

Each interaction demanded something different: patience, firmness, empathy, boundaries. I had to read the moment, trust my instincts, and respond in a way that felt right even when I wasn’t sure what “right” looked like anymore. I was managing not just the individual, but the ripple effect on the team. People were confused, hurt, frustrated. I had to hold space for them too.

And all the while, the pressure from the organisation was building. Complaints were coming in. Stakeholders were raising concerns. There were whispers of disciplinary action. But how do you discipline someone who’s in crisis? How do you balance accountability with compassion?

I found myself pushing back. Not because I didn’t believe in standards, but because I believed in people. I knew this wasn’t about misconduct - it was about survival. And I wasn’t willing to let policy override humanity.

Looking back, I still don’t know how I managed some of those days. There were moments I felt completely drained - emotionally, mentally, even physically. I questioned myself constantly: Was I doing enough? Was I doing too much? Was I enabling, or was I supporting?

Looking back, I still don’t know how I managed some of those days. There were moments I felt completely drained - emotionally, mentally, even physically. I questioned myself constantly: Was I doing enough? Was I doing too much? Was I enabling, or was I supporting?

But through all the uncertainty, one thing remained clear: I couldn’t walk away. Not because it was my job, but because it was the right thing to do. I leaned into my gut feeling, even when it went against the grain of policy or procedure. I chose compassion over compliance, and I don’t regret it.

What I’ve learned is that support doesn’t always look like a solution. Sometimes it’s just being there - listening, absorbing, and holding space. Sometimes it’s resisting the urge to fix, and instead just standing beside someone. And sometimes, it’s accepting that the systems we rely on - the agencies, the protocols - aren’t always enough. They’re not always the right fit. And that’s okay.

I don’t judge. I don’t criticise. I just hope. Hope that one day, things will be better. Hope that the person I supported finds peace. Hope that others in similar roles know they’re not alone.

Because in the end, it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being present.