When I talk with nurses about the experience of professional grief, I often use the analogy of freight trucks that are built to carry particularly heavy loads. As tough and admirable as they are for their strength, they still each ultimately have a weight limit that needs to be heeded, if the trucks are going to be able to travel long distances over a long time without breaking down. I compare us nurses to these trucks. Sometimes we need rest stops to reassess how we’re doing on the road. Sometimes we need to offload weight, so that we have capacity to pick up more and to keep going.

Nursing involves heavy work – emotionally, physically, mentally, socially, and spiritually. In thinking about how to heed my own weight limits, one practice I’ve developed is to send myself on personal retreats about twice a year for the last decade or so, and this is one of the best things I’ve learned to do for myself.

The Why:

– Life in general, and specifically as a nurse and mom, will always have an endless list of demands and needs from people around. If I don’t force myself to physically get away, tasks will tempt and guilt will whisper, “Keep working.”

– I’m too good at letting myself operate from a place of should, must, put my heart aside because someone else’s always feels more valid.

– It is both a discipline and also an act of vital self-care to wait out the discomfort of stillness, and let all the things I bury – as I’m regulating others’ grief, anxiety, trauma, chaos and anger – come to the surface and receive compassionate attention and comfort.

– I’m an introvert and I barely get time alone. Running errands and doing housework while sorting through my mental load while the kids are at school doesn’t count. I’m talking about time to be still before my God in Heaven who knows and calls me by name.

The How:

– I find a quiet place that facilitates solitude and simplicity. I usually go for two nights, approximately 48 hours in total. Even an overnight trip can be helpful, if that’s all my family can spare, but I found that I am barely just unpacking my burdens on an overnight trip when time is up. Two nights allows for more breathing room and deeper settling.

– I hand over the reins at home to my beyond supportive husband. As attentive, willing and capable as he is, this still required some internal letting go on my end, because it felt like such a big ask. That said, it speaks to how vital supportive partners really are in understanding how hard we work, and how vital rest is for us.

– I listen really closely to what I need and then facilitate that. Sometimes, if I feel like I’ve been trapped indoors between my house and the hospital, I seek out a lot of time in nature. If I feel that I’ve been moving nonstop, then I will sit myself on a bench with a view for hours, embrace the stillness, and watch the sun rise or set while hawks soar freely through the mountain air. On my most recent trip, I spent the first day writing freehand the story of me in the swirl of some rough work shifts with terrible trauma patients that came through. My heart got buried in it all, and as it surfaced in writing, I just let myself weep over all that I was carrying. The burdens were released and the next full day was one of adventure hiking and deep rest, without responsibilities or frustrations. The final morning included reflections in the book of Ecclesiastes and gratitude.

– It’s nothing fancy. Really, just courage and permission to let whatever needs surfacing come to the light, and then bringing that into God’s tender love.

I can’t recommend it enough. We can only give out of what we have received.