Quietly holding space: Acknowledging emotional labour in PR

While the test fire alarm in the office blared, I remained at my laptop, fighting a fire of my own in drafting a much-needed internal memo for an urgent executive announcement. I softened the language, enhancing the tone to sound calmer. I inhaled and held space, even as I found it challenging to hear my own thoughts. Although this occurred in 2019, a situation like this in communications and public relations, especially during moments of disruption, can very much be the norm. We’re the ones expected to stay calm, clear and strategic, even when the floor is shifting beneath our feet. We’re the ones who hold space—not just for messaging, but to hold people’s trust. And it’s work. Real work. Often invisible and occasionally a fast track to burnout if left unchecked.

Last year, the Chartered Institute of Public Relations declared that “91% of PR professionals experienced poor mental health at some point in the past year,” which is difficult to look away from. As conversations about burnout become more common in workplaces, there’s one piece that’s still occasionally overlooked: the emotional labour that communicators and client-facing roles perform every day. From navigating crises and staying calm to managing stakeholder expectations or supporting tough decisions with clarity and care, the job is rarely just about words. It’s about being reliable while carrying trust and feelings—ours and everyone else’s.

The role behind the role

Dr. Liz Yeomans’ book Public Relations as Emotional Labour argues that managing one’s own and others’ feelings to build trust and maintain relationships isn’t a side effect of PR—it’s central to the work. Even as digital tools streamline tasks, the emotional intensity of agency life and PR’s “always on” culture endures. Reading this book shifted my perspective. I hadn’t instinctively grouped PR with professions typically linked to emotional labour, like first responders or customer service reps, but it fits—albeit in more subtle, persistent ways. Communicators absorb panic from executives, frustration from staff and tension from the public, then distil those emotions into messaging that sounds measured, respectful and calm. We anticipate backlash before it hits, advise on tone as much as text, and often do so without acknowledging what it costs us emotionally. In a blog post with Leeds Business School, Yeomans also acknowledges how competitiveness in these fields contributes, whether competing with peers for promotions or competing against our high expectations for ourselves.

Whether you’re a sole proprietor or part of a large institution, chances are you’ve been in rooms where you’re expected to say the right thing at the right time, in the right way—especially when there’s no perfect solution. Nowhere is this emotional labour more intense than in crisis communications. We’re among the first to know when something has gone wrong and among the last to step back once it’s “over”—often with little chance to fully process what happened. The residue of that work lingers: exhaustion, detachment, even guilt when outcomes aren’t ideal. Over time, this can lead to what psychologists call surface acting—projecting required emotions outwardly while suppressing our true internal response. It’s a draining practice that can leave communicators emotionally fatigued, disconnected from their work and questioning our impact.

The need to be “on”

One of the hardest things about emotional labour in PR and communications is that it can be hard to locate. Our work often looks polished and effortless from the outside. The memo landed well. The CEO sounded confident. The social media backlash fizzled out. But behind the scenes? It may have taken hours of careful language, multiple rewrites and dozens of intuitive gut checks.

This discrepancy contributes to burnout. We’re expected to always be adaptable and responsive yet often rush back to usual business once a crisis clears. We “just fix it” when something goes sideways. And we do all this while staying professional, warm and human. Over time, it wears down even the most resilient among us.

What actions can we take?

So, what do we do with this information, and how do we begin to acknowledge this hidden work? One way is by naming it. Emotional labour is part of the job. It deserves to be recognized, not treated as a personal failing or as an invisible skill.

• Teams can normalize emotional check-ins after difficult projects.
• Managers can build recovery time into workloads after crises or major campaigns.
• Freelancers and contractors can set clearer boundaries with clients about availability and scope.
• We can also start to include relational skills—like conflict navigation or empathy-driven writing—in performance evaluations and professional development plans.
• Peer support matters, too. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is talk to someone else who understands. A quick message to a fellow communicator saying, “That sounded like a hard one—how are you holding up?” can go a long way. This is also referred to as “collective care” and is something I talk about with Registered Clinical Counsellor Emily Macdonell in our blog post ‘Collective Care as a Remedy for Entrepreneurial Burnout.’

Moving toward recognition

We often choose this work because we believe in the power of language to connect people and move things forward. But that doesn’t mean we have to sacrifice ourselves in the process. Acknowledging emotional labour isn’t self-indulgent; it’s necessary for long-term sustainability.

If we want to prevent burnout in our field, we have to make space for care. That means advocating for better support, setting boundaries where we can, creating supportive networks and reminding ourselves that holding space is valuable work, even if it doesn’t show up on a deliverable list. We’re not just writing words. We’re holding people and trust. And that matters.