'What I wish I had known as a young newly qualified social worker'

by Sophie Baker

When I announced my decision to study social work, the reactions from my family and friends were a mixture of disbelief and concern.

I was the child who clung to my mum’s coattails, shied away from meeting new people and flatly refused to try anything remotely out of the ordinary. For me to step into a field that demanded courage, resilience and confronting the unknown? It seemed unthinkable.

And yet, in 2001, aged 22, I found myself freshly qualified and wide-eyed in a children and families’ team.

Those first years were undoubtedly the most challenging of my career. But they taught me so much.

The whirlwind of the first few post-qualification months

In my first months as a young newly qualified social worker, I wasn’t just learning the intricacies of my new profession; I was also learning how to navigate the complexities of adulthood.

Moving out of my family home, figuring out how to pay bills, negotiating the ups and downs of a relationship with a demanding boyfriend and carving out time to laugh, dance, and drink cheap wine with friends - it was a lot.

Meanwhile, my professional world introduced me to different realities.

I worked with a teenager who had abused his younger sister, assessed a family living in constant fear of an abusive stepfather and supported a mother with bipolar disorder to create a safe and happy life for her children.

My personal and professional lives couldn’t have felt more different. By day, I was immersed in helping vulnerable families to make difficult changes. By night, I was a young adult trying to figure out my own path, laughing too loud and making mistakes.

During this time, I suffered from terrible imposter syndrome.  I was certain it wouldn’t be long until someone exposed me as a fraud.

I wish I had realised that somehow it would all balance out over time.

I wish I had known the value I brought

Naturally, one of my biggest fears was that families would see me as too young and inexperienced to help them.

It wasn’t uncommon for parents to question whether I could understand their struggles when I didn’t have children of my own. At the time, these challenges felt deeply personal.

“It isn’t me we are here to talk about,” I often responded, defensively.

Looking back, I cringe at those words because they shut down a real opportunity to connect. Families needed reassurance that they were in capable hands.

Behind my defensive response was my own insecurity - an uncertainty about the value I could bring so early in my career.

I wish I had known that my perspective, authenticity and willingness to learn were powerful tools.

Instead of rushing to prove myself, I should have leaned into the parents’ questions with empathy and curiosity.

I should have said, “Can you tell me what you’re worried about?”, or, “It’s clear how much you care about getting this right for your children.” Such responses acknowledge their concern and invite conversation.

I would tell my younger self, and newly qualified practitioners today, that families don’t need perfection or years of experience. They need someone who shows up, listens and works with them to find the best way forward.

I wish I hadn’t obsessed over theory

In my early days of practice, I often found myself overthinking every conversation and intervention, second-guessing whether I was applying the “right” theory or tool.

This focus on "getting it right” was in danger of distracting me from what mattered most.

My understanding of theories, models and tools developed as I grew, but now I recognise that it's okay not to have all the answers.

Families don’t care what theory you’re drawing from or which framework guides your practice. They care about whether you treat them with honesty, respect and genuine care.

They value your ability to listen and follow through on your promises far more than the technicalities of your approach.

So, I wish I had let go of the pressure to name every model or approach.

What matters in the beginning is your willingness to learn and focus on what the family needs.

I wish I had known supervision is a lifeline, not a test

I wish I had considered supervision an opportunity to grow professionally, rather than a test of my calibre.

I remember working hard to build what I thought was a trusting relationship with a mother until she requested a new social worker during a period of deteriorating mental health.

I felt hurt because we had always worked so well together, and I spent a long time worrying that I had done something wrong.

Sadly, I didn’t feel confident enough to explore my feelings, or how my experiences were affecting my practice, with my manager. I didn’t want to seem incompetent, overly anxious or incapable.

I wish I had opened myself up more meaningfully to emotional support and trusted myself to have those critical conversations that I came to rely upon as a more experienced practitioner.

I wish I had trusted that parents are the experts of their children

My lack of confidence led me to focus too much on risk and harm, rather than taking time to explore the strengths and aspirations of families.

I struggled to trust that parents were the experts in their own children and, although it is hard to confess, I wanted to be the author of their plans to gain control over the uncertainty.

An example was when I worked with a family where the father was arrested for viewing indecent images of children.

Despite the mother making excellent safeguarding decisions, including separating from him and supervising contact, I struggled to trust she would maintain this. This likely prolonged my involvement with the family, unnecessarily.

Managing risk is one of the most difficult aspects of social work. It is not an exact science and can feel like a heavy burden of responsibility.

However, I wish someone had reassured me that, while I shouldn’t be blindly optimistic, the best outcomes would happen when I worked with families, not against them.

I wish I had known that the time when I would be most successful in practice would be when I realised that social work wasn’t about eliminating risk. It’s about empowering people to manage and navigate risks independently, to become their own agents of change.