There are moments in this work that take your breath away – in both beautiful and devastating ways. For those of us serving off ship, those moments often happen unseen.

The ship is, understandably, the heart of the story. It’s where the surgeries take place, where hope is visible and tangible. It makes sense that it draws the attention, the celebrations, the support. And it should.

But there’s a whole world of work that happens beyond the ship – work that’s equally demanding, equally sacred, and often, far less seen. We’re out building programs, navigating tough decisions, partnering with local teams, troubleshooting in real time, and sometimes… carrying heartbreak home at the end of the day.

Last week, my colleague and I spent two hours performing resuscitation on a baby. We did everything we could. We fought for that child’s life. And we lost them. I came back to the ship physically and emotionally wrecked, walking through the same gangway that sees so much celebration and joy. A few close friends saw us – really saw us. They offered hugs, quiet words, and the space to grieve. But to most people, I probably just looked tired. Maybe a bit withdrawn. And I didn’t have it in me to explain. Not over and over. Not that day.

It’s a strange dissonance – being part of a deeply supportive community, but feeling like that support has boundaries defined by proximity or visibility. The heartbreaks that happen off ship may not come with announcements or visible ripple effects. But they’re still happening. They’re still heavy. And they still matter.

This isn’t a complaint, and it’s not about blame. It’s just a truth I’ve been sitting with. That it’s hard to feel the strength of a community when your pain lives outside the spotlight.

And yet – I have to hold some accountability too. I wonder how often we keep the hardest parts of our work locked up tight, assuming no one wants to see them. Maybe we don’t make space for our grief to be shared, and so no one knows how to step into it with us.

Maybe part of being a healthy, whole community means finding ways to tell our stories – to invite others in, even just a little – so we don’t carry the weight alone. Maybe we don’t need every detail understood, but we do need to be seen. To feel like our losses matter, even when they happen in places no one else was watching.

There’s no tidy resolution here. No call to action, really. Just a reflection. A quiet reminder that not all sacred work happens on the ship, and not all pain wears a name tag.

And even in the shadows, the work is holy.