When I and my husband had our back-to-back medical crises in 2023, me getting a breast cancer diagnosis followed by him getting a severe spinal cord injury resulting from the most random epidural abscess, I continued working through the bulk of that entire year (minus a week for post-op lumpectomy recovery, and the month I needed to devote to radiation treatment). This was made possible only because of the tremendous support we had from my parents and our amazing friends, particularly with childcare. It was possible also because I had a supportive work environment that allowed me appropriate shifts (mostly in the charge nurse role when I needed something minimally physical) such that my shifts were not overly taxing.

But I also went to work because I really, really wanted to.

I didn’t just need the sense of normalcy, the time with dear friends at work, and the income.

I needed the things my patients and their families taught me about suffering and endurance.

• They have been the reality check that no one is immune from unexpected hardships. When we presume entitlement to a carefree life, this can make hardship all the more difficult to accept and endure. Self-pity keeps our eyes downcast and feeds bitterness of heart. Humble acceptance of our humanity and vulnerability quiets self-pity, and helps divert the emotional energy towards an expression of grief that is marked by greater peace and kindness.

• Some patients and families have demonstrated to me the surprising hope that it is possible to walk through seasons of intense suffering with grace, a sense of humor, and even an other-centeredness that defies logic. Not perfection or denial of one’s own inner turmoil and messiness, but an ability nonetheless to resist succumbing to utter darkness of heart.

• Bearing witness to my patients and families has pressed upon me the way deep suffering forces you to take inventory of what you believe (and why), what matters most (and why), and how you will start to shake free from everything else that’s just smoke and mirrors. Curiously deep suffering magnifies the small joys too (my husband never enjoyed an In ‘n Out burger more than he did after a few weeks of a very bland rehab hospital diet!). But that’s a side bonus. The real and lasting treasures of life are never more clear or bright than they are in seasons of deep suffering.

The list can go on and on. But this makes me think of where we are now, with all the political and social turmoil that has come with 2025 in our country. My heart has been deeply dismayed at the profound injustices, growing misinformation, and reckless upheaval of so many lives without any sense of thoughtful, compassionate intention with all the societal changes.

Once again, I find nursing to be a significant salve for the heartache I feel for our country and the world.

Not because I have a hero complex. But because I can think of very few other professions that allow me to still lock in almost immediately into opportunities for meaningful human connection, desperately needed compassion, and all kinds of ability to help.

Of course, nursing and healthcare are facing all their own challenges and demons that can limit our ability to provide ideal patient care.

Yet still, when I stepped into the patient and family caregiver roles in 2023, I learned that every little action, every exchange of kindness mattered for us. I still remember the healthcare staff who were the most human and thoughtful towards us. They couldn’t fix everything for us, but they carried our hearts through the sorrow.

I am deeply grateful that my husband and I are both healthy enough again, such that I can continue showing up in this profession when the needs in our world feel greater than ever. It is a privilege to be trusted with the stories and care of our patients and families. I want and need to be a part of whatever goodness we can continue to uphold. I want and need to continue learning all the lessons my patients and families have to teach me about living, suffering, and even dying well.

I am so thankful to be a nurse.