Why Nursing? | Of Intensive Care, Frightening First Encounters, and a Profession I Almost Questioned

There is something rather dishonest about the way nursing is sometimes presented to young people. We are shown photographs of smiling nurses in immaculate uniforms, standing beside grateful patients in beautifully arranged hospital rooms. Everybody looks well-rested, the equipment appears cooperative, and the entire profession seems to operate according to an agreeable understanding that kindness will eventually make everything better. It is a lovely picture. Unfortunately, somebody forgot to include the alarming monitors, the complicated medical equipment, the bodily fluids, and the occasional moment when a student nurse seriously considers whether she has made a terrible mistake in choosing her future career.

I had always wanted to become a nurse. Or at least, I had always been attracted to the idea of becoming one. There was something admirable about caring for people, understanding the human body, and having the knowledge to help someone during a difficult moment. I imagined myself becoming competent, dependable, and sufficiently intelligent to answer clinical questions without experiencing an immediate crisis of confidence. It was a respectable ambition, one that seemed perfectly sensible whenever I discussed it with other people.

Then nursing school introduced me to the Intensive Care Unit.

And suddenly, my career ambitions required further clarification.

During one of our clinical rotations, I was assigned to care for a paediatric patient diagnosed with Dengue Haemorrhagic Fever, Grade III, with signs of encephalopathy. Even reading the diagnosis was enough to remind me that this was no ordinary clinical assignment. The child was critically unwell, required intensive monitoring, and had several intravenous infusions and other medical attachments. Among healthcare workers, such a patient might be informally described as toxic, a term used in some clinical settings to refer to someone whose condition is particularly serious or unstable.

At the time, I also became familiar with another rather imaginative expression used around hospital beds: Christmas tree.

I remember finding the comparison both amusing and slightly disturbing. The child had so many lines, drips, and pieces of equipment surrounding the bed that the arrangement reminded people of a Christmas tree covered in decorations. Of course, there was absolutely nothing festive about the situation. Instead of colourful ornaments and cheerful lights, there were medical devices, fluid infusions, and the constant responsibility of observing a critically ill patient.

It was the sort of Christmas tree nobody would ever wish to receive.

I was still a student nurse, learning how to apply the knowledge I had acquired during lectures and return demonstrations. In the classroom, we studied dengue, its complications, the importance of monitoring fluid balance, and the signs that could indicate clinical deterioration. Everything appeared reasonably organised when presented through diagrams, textbooks, and carefully written nursing care plans.

But a critically ill child in an intensive care environment was another matter entirely.

The patient’s condition required close observation, including frequent assessment of vital signs and careful monitoring of urine output. There were clinical changes to recognise, observations to report, and interventions being carried out by the supervising healthcare team. The atmosphere was demanding, and the responsibility of participating in the child’s care, even under supervision, felt considerably greater than anything I had experienced during a classroom demonstration.

To make matters more challenging, I also had responsibilities involving two other patients during that duty. Their conditions required attention as well, and I found myself struggling to reconcile the orderly sequence of tasks I had learned at school with the unpredictable demands of the clinical environment.

I had studied time management. I had written nursing care plans. I had memorised the importance of prioritisation.

Unfortunately, the patients had not agreed to arrange their needs according to the order in which I had prepared my notes.

One situation, in particular, remains with me.

The child became extremely agitated and experienced repeated episodes of vomiting blood. The situation was distressing to witness, especially because I was still inexperienced and conscious of how seriously unwell the patient was. Even carrying out basic observations became difficult amid the agitation and the demands of the situation. I wanted to help, but I was also painfully aware of my limitations.

I remember feeling overwhelmed.

There is a particular kind of uncertainty that comes from recognising what needs to be done while knowing that you do not yet possess the experience to manage everything independently. I understood the importance of monitoring, reporting changes, and following the guidance of the registered nurses and clinical instructors. But understanding those responsibilities did not make the experience emotionally easy.

My knowledge seemed terribly small compared with what was happening in front of me.

I had entered the hospital wearing my student-nurse uniform, carrying my equipment, and hoping to demonstrate that I was learning to become a capable professional. Yet there I was, confronted with a situation that reminded me how much I still had to understand.

Even the simplest nursing activities required greater concentration than usual. The patient’s condition demanded attention, the clinical environment was busy, and the uncertainty made me question my confidence.

Our duty eventually extended beyond the expected hours.

By the time we were preparing to finish, I was exhausted in a way that had very little to do with physical tiredness alone. My mind continued returning to what I had witnessed, what I had struggled with, and whether I had been adequately prepared for such an experience.

And then came the question I had never seriously expected to ask myself.

Is this really the profession I want?

I found the question uncomfortable because nursing had been part of my ambition for so long. I had spent years studying, completing requirements, attending clinical placements, and imagining the day when I would finally become a Registered Nurse. I knew the profession was demanding. Our instructors had reminded us often enough, and our textbooks certainly made no attempt to conceal the seriousness of human illness.

But there was a considerable difference between knowing that nursing could be difficult and standing beside a critically ill child while discovering exactly how difficult it could feel.

I began wondering whether passion was enough.

We hear so much about passion when discussing careers. People advise us to follow what we love, pursue our calling, and choose something that gives our lives meaning. These are appealing ideas, especially when we are young and trying to decide what sort of future we want.

But what happens when the profession we thought we loved becomes frightening?

What happens when the responsibility feels larger than our confidence, or when the realities of the workplace are very different from the future we imagined?

I did not have an answer.

So I watched the nurses.

While I was struggling with my own uncertainty, the registered nurses continued caring for the patients with a level of competence that impressed me enormously. They assessed, monitored, communicated, and responded to the demands of the clinical environment with the experience and judgement that I had not yet developed.

What appeared overwhelming to me was part of their professional responsibility.

I noticed how they managed competing priorities, maintained their attention to patient safety, and continued providing care despite the pressures surrounding them. Their work required clinical knowledge, practical skill, patience, and the ability to remain focused in situations where emotions could easily become overwhelming.

From where I stood, they seemed remarkably capable.

I wondered whether it was passion that allowed them to continue.

Was it dedication? Experience? A sense of responsibility? Had they always possessed that confidence, or had they once stood in hospital corridors feeling as uncertain as I did?

Perhaps they had also experienced moments when they questioned themselves.

That possibility had not occurred to me before.

As students, we sometimes look at experienced nurses as though they emerged from nursing school already equipped with exceptional judgement, efficient clinical skills, and an almost supernatural ability to remain composed. We see the competence they possess today without witnessing the years of practice, correction, learning, and difficult experiences that contributed to it.

I had been comparing my beginning with somebody else’s years of experience.

And perhaps that was not entirely fair.

The nurses were not performing their duties effortlessly simply because they had been born with an extraordinary capacity for clinical work. They had acquired knowledge, developed practical skills, and learned how to respond to situations through education and experience.

Watching them made me realise that competence was something I could work towards.

I did not have to know everything as a student. I needed to recognise what I did not know, seek appropriate guidance, practise within my limitations, and remain willing to learn.

That realisation did not make the situation less serious, but it changed how I understood my own uncertainty.

I was not expected to become an experienced intensive care nurse during one clinical rotation.

I was expected to become a better student nurse through the experience.

As the duty progressed and the child began to show signs of improvement, I felt a cautious sense of relief. The medical team continued providing care, and the atmosphere gradually became less overwhelming than it had been during the most difficult moments.

I cannot recall every clinical detail of the child’s subsequent recovery, nor would it be appropriate to claim that my contribution as a student was responsible for the improvement. The patient’s care depended on the coordinated work of experienced healthcare professionals, appropriate treatment, and ongoing clinical assessment.

But I remember something that happened before our shift ended.

The child’s family expressed their gratitude.

It was a simple gesture, yet I found myself strangely affected by it.

After the anxiety, the demanding observations, and the uncertainty I had experienced, hearing those words gave the day a meaning I had not anticipated. The family had been facing something far more frightening than my concerns about clinical competence. Their child was seriously ill, and they had been depending on the healthcare team during a difficult period.

Their gratitude was not about making a student nurse feel accomplished.

It was an expression of appreciation from people who had witnessed the care being provided to someone they loved.

And somehow, that mattered enormously to me.

I had spent much of the duty worrying about whether I was capable of becoming a nurse. Yet watching the staff nurses and hearing the family’s appreciation reminded me why the profession had attracted me in the first place.

Nursing involved technical knowledge and clinical responsibilities, certainly. But those skills were being used in the service of people who were experiencing illness, uncertainty, and vulnerability.

There was a human reason behind every observation, every treatment, and every decision.

It was not simply about completing a task correctly.

It was about understanding why that task mattered to the person receiving care.

I would not claim that one experience answered every question I had about my future. It would be rather unrealistic to suggest that a demanding clinical duty could suddenly resolve all uncertainty about a profession as complicated as nursing.

I still had much to learn.

There would be other placements, unfamiliar situations, corrections from instructors, and occasions when I would feel considerably less confident than I wanted to appear.

But something about that ICU experience remained with me.

It challenged my understanding of what it meant to choose nursing.

Before entering the profession, I had imagined that wanting to become a nurse was enough to establish my direction. I believed that determination, compassion, and academic achievement would carry me towards the career I had chosen.

The ICU showed me that nursing required more than wanting to help people.

Compassion without competence could not provide safe clinical care. Knowledge without practical judgement could leave us uncertain when circumstances changed. Technical skills without sensitivity could reduce patients to tasks rather than recognising them as individuals with their own needs and concerns.

And perhaps most importantly, enthusiasm alone could not sustain a professional career without the willingness to accept responsibility and continue learning.

I began to understand why nursing education demanded so much from us.

Our instructors were not simply trying to make our lives difficult with endless nursing care plans, complicated examinations, and questions that seemed specifically designed to expose everything we had forgotten. They were preparing us for a profession in which decisions could have serious consequences.

At the time, I sometimes complained about the academic pressure, particularly when requirements accumulated faster than I could complete them.

But after that clinical exposure, I began to see those expectations differently.

Every lesson was part of a much larger responsibility.

There is another thing I realised during my nursing education: caring for others does not require us to be indifferent to our own limitations. Nurses are human beings, not machines capable of functioning indefinitely without rest, support, or emotional consequences.

The experienced nurses I admired were competent because of their knowledge, teamwork, training, and practice. Their professionalism did not mean they were immune to fatigue or distress, nor did it mean that difficult situations were always easy for them.

I think young students sometimes misunderstand dedication as the willingness to tolerate absolutely anything.

But genuine professionalism also involves recognising when support is needed, communicating concerns, protecting patient safety, and understanding the importance of appropriate staffing and supervision.

That lesson would become increasingly relevant as I continued discovering what nursing involved.

As I approached the completion of my studies, I found myself reflecting on how much the course had changed my understanding of the profession. I had entered nursing school with an ambition. I was approaching graduation with a more realistic appreciation of the knowledge, judgement, patience, and accountability required to practise safely.

The transformation was gradual.

It happened through lectures, clinical rotations, mistakes, observations, and conversations with patients and healthcare professionals. Some experiences encouraged my confidence. Others exposed my limitations.

And occasionally, like that demanding ICU duty, an experience made me question whether I belonged in the profession at all.

Perhaps that was not necessarily a bad thing.

There is value in questioning our ambitions when we begin to understand the responsibilities attached to them. It allows us to examine whether we are attracted merely to the idea of a profession or prepared to undertake the work it requires.

I still wanted to become a nurse.

But my reasons were becoming more thoughtful.

I no longer imagined nursing entirely through the familiar image of a smiling professional standing beside a grateful patient. I had witnessed how demanding the work could become, how quickly clinical situations could change, and how much depended on experience, sound judgement, and collaboration.

I had also witnessed the reassurance that competent care could provide to patients and families.

And I wanted to become capable of contributing to that work.

I often think about the question people ask nursing students: Why nursing?

It sounds simple enough. Perhaps the expected answer involves a lifelong passion, a desire to help others, or an admiration for healthcare professionals. Those are respectable reasons, and I would never dismiss them.

But I have come to believe that choosing nursing cannot depend on one motivation alone.

Compassion matters, but it must be supported by knowledge. Intelligence matters, but it must be accompanied by humility and the willingness to learn. Practical skills are essential, but so are patience, communication, and the ability to recognise the individual behind the clinical condition.

And practicality deserves a place in the conversation, too.

Nursing is a profession, not merely an expression of personal kindness. Nurses require fair compensation, safe working conditions, opportunities for development, and the resources necessary to fulfil their responsibilities. Wanting to earn a reasonable living does not diminish a person’s compassion. Neither should dedication to patients be used as an argument for disregarding the wellbeing of the people providing their care.

To me, nursing involves finding a balance between service, competence, professional responsibility, and the practical realities of life.

I cannot claim to have mastered that balance as a student.

I was still learning.

But perhaps the experience in the ICU helped me recognise what I wanted to work towards.

I wanted to develop the judgement of the nurses I had observed. I wanted to become more confident in unfamiliar situations, improve my clinical knowledge, and provide care that patients and families could trust.

I wanted to understand what I was doing and why it mattered.

And I wanted to remember how it felt to be the inexperienced student standing beside a critically ill child, suddenly aware of how much she still needed to learn.

Years later, I suspect there will be many details of nursing school that I struggle to recall. I may forget particular examination questions, the precise wording of a Clinical Instructor’s correction, or the number of hours I spent completing certain assignments.

But I doubt I will forget the feeling of standing in that ICU, surrounded by equipment, watching experienced nurses care for a child whose condition frightened me.

I had arrived expecting another clinical duty.

Instead, I encountered a question about my future.

For a while, I thought the answer might be found in whether I enjoyed the work, whether I felt confident, or whether I could imagine myself performing the same responsibilities for years to come.

But confidence can take time to develop, and meaningful work is not necessarily enjoyable every moment of the day.

As our shift approached its end, I remembered the gratitude expressed by the child’s family. I thought about the nurses who had continued working with such care and attention, and about the difference between my uncertainty and their experience.

I still had no extraordinary insight into the future.

I was simply a nursing student, exhausted after a difficult duty and beginning to understand the responsibilities of a profession I had once imagined much more simply.

Yet somewhere between the frightening observations, the questions I could not answer, and the reassuring presence of experienced nurses, my ambition had acquired a different meaning.

I had once wanted to become a nurse because I admired what nurses did.

After that experience, I began wanting to become the kind of nurse whose knowledge and care could make a meaningful difference when somebody needed them most.

Perhaps that is the answer I had been looking for.

Not an impressive declaration about having been born for the profession, nor a romantic belief that compassion alone would overcome every challenge.

Just the recognition that I had much to learn, and that the work was important enough to make me want to learn it.

The child was beginning to recover. The family had offered their thanks. The nurses continued with their responsibilities, and another demanding duty was coming to an end.

I was still tired.

I was still inexperienced.

But when I asked myself again why I had chosen nursing, I found that I no longer needed an elaborate answer.

I had seen what good nursing could mean to a family.

And I wanted to learn how to provide it.

From my student-nurse memoirs, with appreciation for the ICU nurses whose competence and compassion helped me understand the profession I had chosen.

— Just Anj