April 23, 2025 By Alexis G. Miller

I’ve always been the kind of person who keeps their head down and focuses on the task at hand. When my colleague, Jason, announced that his parent had passed away, I felt a wave of empathy for him. It was impossible not to—losing a parent is unimaginable. But, if I’m being honest, there was this gnawing feeling I couldn’t shake. A selfish little thought that kept creeping into my mind: What the hell am I going to do with his workload?

Jason is, to put it mildly, a genius when it comes to his work. His technical expertise is miles beyond mine. Every time I try to help with one of his projects, I end up feeling like I’m drowning in a sea of jargon and systems I can’t quite figure out. His work is precise, complex, and above all, intricate. The idea of stepping into those shoes while he’s away for a few weeks has me feeling more anxious than I care to admit.

I know it’s not about me, but it still feels like I’m carrying an enormous weight. Jason’s gone, and I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces, even if it’s just for a short time. I’ve had to spend hours going through his work, reading over things, trying to understand the code, the specs, the steps he’s outlined. My brain is screaming at me to give up, but I can’t. Not when I know that if I fail, everything will fall apart.

The worst part? I can’t even talk to him about it. He’s grieving. His life has been upended in the worst way, and the last thing he needs is me complaining about work. So, I keep it to myself. I keep smiling at everyone in the office, pretending everything is fine, even as I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water.

The days drag on. I try to reach out to other colleagues for help, but the work is so specialized that no one else seems to know how to handle it either. I’m stuck, staring at screens filled with things I don’t understand, feeling guilty about not understanding them, and wondering if I’m doing Jason’s work any justice.

Every time I step out of the office, the weight doesn’t lift. I’m carrying it with me, hoping that somehow, someway, I’ll get through it. It’s not that I don’t want to help—I do—but the pressure feels endless.

It’s strange. I know I should focus on what Jason is going through, and I do. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I’m also just trying to survive the next few weeks without falling apart.

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