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It’s late evening in March 2020. Pennsylvania Governor Tom Wolf ordered all nonessential workers to stay at home four days earlier. Restaurants, theaters, schools, and gyms are all closed. Grocery store lines wind out the door.

I’m seated around a firepit behind Unity House, at full capacity a week ago, with the four remaining residents. I watch as they listen to Graham, the house owner, explain the new house rules for obtaining groceries, attending 12-step meetings, sanitizing surfaces, and maintaining social distance. I’m worried about “losing the group” to panic, to the new rules, to relapse, to COVID-19.

Next day, I arrive early and sit on the porch, waiting for our start time. Graham joins me; the others—Freddy, Jackson, Nate, and a new resident, Dillan— follow. As we engage in small talk, I realize group has begun in earnest. I worry what it means that it’s happened without my consent, but I’m pleased at the ease with which the group process has begun. The guys are managing their concerns without much guidance or facilitation by me.

I organize a sociometric warm-up and transition quickly into an empty-chair activity. The residents take turns embodying their present, future, and past selves. They laugh, shout, and whisper from the stage. There’s a qualitative difference; something feels more intimate, more casual. I’m excited by the support and spontaneity. Even Dillan is taking risks and connecting with others.

I wonder, is it the group size? The intervention? The mood of the day? My eyes wander to Graham; is he maintaining appropriate boundaries? Is he holding the guys accountable?

Guilt

Graham calls me: “Dillan overdosed in the house. He’s OK now. The guys got him an ambulance, and he’s on his way to the hospital.” My knowledge of the effects of trauma alarms me to the need for intervention as soon as possible. I drive to the house for an emergency group.

The guys are seated around the fire when I arrive. Graham starts, “I feel like I let you guys down and like I let Dillan down. It’s one thing for me to see that kind of thing because I’ve seen it all before, but seeing you, Nate, and how scared you were brought me back to the reality of the situation. A dude could’ve died in this house, and I’m supposed to be the first line of defense.”

Jackson replies: “I’ve been bitchin’ all week about not being able to get out of the house and not being able to do what I wanna do, and I was ignoring Dillan even though I was suspicious of him takin’ his dinner up to his room every day. That’s not on you, Graham, that’s on all of us.”

I, too, am feeling guilty—for not anticipating Dillan’s relapse, for the secondary harm to the residents, for being so concerned with facilitating the group correctly rather than from a place of compassionate understanding, for my attempts to steer the group members where I want them to go rather than where they are.

Recovery

At the dining room table, group proceeds around plates of chicken alfredo. The guys toss COVID-19 conspiracy theories across the table and begin to argue. I offer information and mediation where I can. The topics of George Floyd’s murder and the Black Lives Matter movement come up. Jackson and Nate begin to argue about a documentary about the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and mass incarceration. I feel the nervousness return. What’s within the scope of my role as social worker? Should I intervene? What if they say something harmful to each other? What can I do to defuse the situation?

I breathe mindfully, noticing the cool air on my nostrils, feeling my heart rate slow. I sit back in my chair, exhale, and allow the group to be the group.

Excerpted from The Social Worker Becoming, which appeared in Social Work with Groups, July 2020.