Name the Fee

A colleague texts. They have a tricky case--a client presentation they haven't seen before, a situation that's making them uneasy, and they need to think it through with someone who gets it.  You get it. So you talk it through. Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. You ask good questions. You help them find the thread. They feel better. You feel good about that.

And then you go back to your day, slightly behind, slightly drained, and unpaid.

You probably didn't think twice about it. That's just what we do for each other, right?

Maybe. But maybe it's worth thinking twice.

The caretaking instinct doesn't clock out.

We spend our days attuned to other people's discomfort. We are trained to notice it, sit with it, and help move through it. That skill doesn't disappear when the session ends.  It follows us into the parking lot. Into text threads with colleagues. Into informal consults squeezed between clients. Into the equipment we lent six months ago that never came back.

The same instinct that makes us good clinicians --the attunement, the generosity, the discomfort with other people's discomfort--can quietly work against us in professional relationships if we never examine it.

Because sometimes what looks like generosity is actually caretaking. And caretaking, as we know, is not the same thing.

Who are we actually protecting?

Here's the part worth sitting with.

When a colleague asks for a consult and you give it freely...no mention of a fee, no structure, just of course, let's talk, ask yourself honestly: who is that for?

Sometimes it genuinely is generosity. Collegial support, mutual aid, the kind of professional community that makes this work sustainable. That is real and it matters.

But sometimes...and this is the part with a little edge...we absorb the cost ourselves to protect the colleague from the awkwardness of not having offered to pay. We smooth over the moment before it can become uncomfortable. We never give them the chance to show up professionally because we've already decided for them that they won't, or that the relationship can't hold it.

That is not generosity. That is caretaking. And it costs us twice: once in time and expertise, and once in the quiet resentment that tends to follow.

What naming the fee actually does.

It is not about the money—though the money matters too, and we should say that plainly. Your expertise has value. A consult is a professional service. You are allowed to charge for it.

But beyond the money, naming the fee does something relational.

It gives your colleague the opportunity to show up as a professional. To say yes, of course—and mean it. To participate in a transaction that honors what you bring rather than assuming it should be free because you're friends, or because you're generous, or because that's just what we do.

When you name the fee, you are not being transactional. You are being clear. And clarity, as we tell our clients constantly, is an act of respect.

The borrowed equipment that never came back.

You know what I mean. The book. The assessment tool. The chair from your office that ended up in someone else's group room.

The caretaking instinct shows up here too—in the not asking for it back, in the not wanting to make it weird, in the slow erosion of your own resources in service of keeping the peace.

Name it. Ask for it back. Let people have the opportunity to be accountable.

You are not being difficult. You are not being unfriendly. You are modeling the same thing we ask of our clients every single week--knowing what you need, and saying it out loud.

An invitation.

The next time a colleague reaches out for your expertise, pause before you respond.

Notice the impulse to say of course, anytime before you've even thought about what it costs you.

And then,gently, professionally, without apology...name the fee. Set the structure. Let them show up for you the way you've been showing up for them.

They might surprise you.

And even if they don't, you'll have shown up for yourself.

Dr. Jamie English is a licensed clinical social worker, supervisor, and educator. The DJ English blog explores the inner life of the clinician—the parts of this work we don't always talk about out loud.