Howdy, I’m a BCBA based in Las Vegas (relocated during covid from CALI in 2020)—and if I’m being completely honest, I’m exhausted.
Not just from the long hours, the notes, or the endless supervision paperwork, but from the emotional weight of this work.
You see, I didn’t choose this field casually. I chose it because I care. I care deeply about the kids who often get overlooked, the ones who test your patience, the ones others write off. I chose this career because I believe every child deserves a chance to communicate, connect, and grow—and because I believe families deserve to be supported through that process, too.
But here’s what they don’t tell you in grad school:
How much the caring can wear on you.
How isolating it can feel when you’re supposed to be the calm in everyone else’s storm.
How sometimes, even with all your training and your data and your heart in the right place—you still feel like you’re barely holding it together.
Somewhere between your unrestricted and restricted hours, between the mock FAs and the endless ethics scenarios, someone should’ve pulled you aside and said:
“This job is going to crack you open. And that’s not a weakness. It’s part of the process.”
No one warned us how much of ourselves we’d pour into this. But maybe that’s the point of a community—of our community. Maybe the next step for this field isn’t just refining our treatment plans and mastering our assessments. Maybe it’s creating safe spaces for real conversations. Where we’re not just BCBAs or supervisors or team leads—but humans. Humans who love, who care, who get tired, and who keep showing up anyway.
So to the future of ABA:
Let’s be honest with each other.
Let’s share our stories without fear or shame.
Let’s be the voice we wish we had when we started.
Because even on the hardest days—especially on the hardest days—this work still matters. We still matter. And we’re not alone.
Behavior Latte 
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