From My Nursing Memoirs | On a Fourteen-Year-Old Patient, the Troubles of Growing Up, and the Importance of Being Heard

Fourteen is an extraordinary age to be expected to understand life. At fourteen, most of us are still trying to understand ourselves. We worry about examinations, friendships, embarrassing moments, the opinions of classmates, and whether the person sitting across the classroom has noticed our existence. A single unpleasant comment can ruin an afternoon, while a disagreement with a friend can feel like a national emergency requiring immediate diplomatic intervention. Adults sometimes laugh at these concerns because they have already lived through them. They know that school eventually ends, friendships change, and the terrible haircut that once seemed capable of destroying a person’s reputation will eventually become an amusing photograph. But that is the advantage of having lived long enough to look backwards. At fourteen, the future is still unfamiliar territory, and the problems occupying today can seem enormous because there is so little experience against which to measure them.

Last night, during my hospital duty, I encountered a fourteen-year-old boy who was experiencing a serious emotional crisis. As a nurse, I have met patients with different illnesses, concerns, and personal circumstances, but this encounter made me think about a kind of suffering that cannot always be recognised through physical observations. I will not share the details of his situation, because his privacy deserves protection, particularly at such a young age. What stayed with me was the thought that somebody who had experienced only fourteen years of life could already be carrying distress so overwhelming that he needed urgent care and support.

I found myself thinking about how different the world must look from his perspective. At twenty-three, I am certainly no expert on life. I still worry about my career, question some of my decisions, and occasionally lie awake imagining problems that have not even happened. I have unfinished ambitions, difficult days, and moments when adulthood seems to involve considerably more confusion than anybody warned me about. Yet I have already experienced changes that my fourteen-year-old self could never have predicted. Some worries I once considered enormous have become less significant. Some disappointments that seemed impossible to accept eventually made room for entirely different experiences. And certain things I feared would never improve did, although not always in the way or within the time I expected.

Perhaps that is what I wished every young person could understand: the circumstances surrounding them today do not necessarily describe the life waiting beyond them. Childhood and adolescence can be especially difficult because so much of a young person’s world is determined by surroundings they cannot easily change. They attend the same school, encounter familiar classmates, live within family arrangements they may not control, and depend upon adults whose decisions influence much of their everyday lives. When something goes wrong inside that relatively small world, there may seem to be very few places to escape the difficulty. A problem that an adult might recognise as temporary can feel overwhelming to somebody who has never experienced what comes afterwards.

But I am also beginning to understand that telling somebody their problems will eventually pass is not always enough. We may intend those words as encouragement, yet they can sound dismissive when spoken to a person whose distress is very real in the present. A young person struggling with bullying, family conflict, loneliness, academic pressure, or other difficulties does not necessarily need another adult explaining that these things are insignificant. To that young person, the experience may be frightening, exhausting, or deeply painful. The fact that circumstances may change in the future does not make the suffering of today imaginary.

I think adults sometimes forget that we were once young ourselves. We remember the amusing parts of adolescence with considerable enthusiasm, particularly the questionable fashion choices and dramatic friendships, but we may overlook how intensely we experienced certain emotions. We laugh at the problems we once believed would ruin our lives because we have since gained perspective. Yet that perspective was acquired through years of living, learning, and encountering new circumstances. It is unreasonable to expect a fourteen-year-old to possess the same understanding before having the opportunity to develop it.

Perhaps, instead of immediately telling young people that their problems are small, we ought to ask why those problems feel so large to them. We might discover that the situation is more complicated than we assumed. We might recognise signs that someone needs additional support, or learn that what appears to be an ordinary disagreement is connected to something much more difficult. And even when there is no simple explanation, taking the time to listen can communicate something important: their feelings deserve to be taken seriously.

During my nursing training, we studied therapeutic communication and the importance of treating patients as individuals with physical, psychological, and emotional needs. It was one of those subjects that seemed straightforward when explained inside a classroom. Listen attentively, communicate without judgement, maintain professional boundaries, and respond appropriately to the patient’s concerns. But the human experience is far more complicated than a list of communication principles. Sometimes we encounter people whose distress we cannot fully understand, and our first responsibility is not to produce an impressive explanation but to ensure that they receive appropriate care, protection, and support.

Last night’s experience reminded me that listening does not require us to possess an immediate answer to every difficulty. There are situations in which a person needs careful assessment and the involvement of appropriately trained professionals. A compassionate conversation can be meaningful, but it cannot replace specialist mental health support when somebody is in serious distress. As nurses, we must recognise the importance of responding safely and working with the wider healthcare team rather than imagining that kindness alone can resolve every crisis.

I wish more people understood that seeking help during emotional difficulties deserves the same seriousness as seeking treatment for a physical illness. We do not ordinarily criticise somebody for needing medical attention when their body is unwell. We recognise that the person may require assessment, treatment, and time to recover. Yet emotional suffering is sometimes met with impatience, judgement, or the suggestion that somebody should simply become stronger. Such responses can make it harder for young people to speak openly about what they are experiencing.

I have heard people describe younger generations as overly sensitive, as though sensitivity were a personal defect that must be corrected through embarrassment. Perhaps some adults genuinely believe that their own experiences were more difficult, or that the problems faced by young people today are relatively minor. But suffering is not a competition. We do not need to determine whose childhood was harder before deciding whether somebody deserves compassion. A person’s distress matters because it is affecting them, not because it has successfully surpassed everybody else’s experiences.

I also wonder how often young people remain silent because they fear disappointing their families. In many Filipino households, parents work extraordinarily hard to provide for their children, and we are raised to recognise the sacrifices involved. Education is considered important, respect for elders is emphasised, and young people may feel considerable pressure to perform well or behave according to expectations. These values can encourage responsibility and gratitude, but they should also leave room for honest conversations about difficulties. A child who is struggling should not feel that admitting distress means being ungrateful for everything their parents have done.

Sometimes what a young person needs is permission to say, “I am having a difficult time,” without immediately being reminded of all the reasons they should be happy. Gratitude and distress can exist together. Someone may love their family, appreciate their opportunities, and still experience emotional difficulties that require attention. Recognising those feelings does not diminish the support they have received. It allows the people around them to understand what kind of help may be necessary.

I think schools also have an important role in creating environments where students feel safe enough to discuss their concerns. Academic achievement matters, but so does the wellbeing of the person trying to achieve it. Examinations can be repeated, grades can improve, and educational plans can change. A disappointing result may require additional work or a different approach, but it should never be treated as a complete judgement of a young person’s value. Students need encouragement to develop their abilities while understanding that their worth extends beyond report cards, rankings, and the expectations of other people.

Friendships can be equally complicated during adolescence. At an age when belonging feels important, being excluded or mistreated by classmates can affect how someone views themselves. Adults may be tempted to dismiss these experiences because they know that friendships often change after school. But while a student remains within that environment, the social consequences can feel immediate and difficult to escape. Bullying and humiliation deserve serious attention, and young people should know that they can speak with trusted adults without being blamed or ridiculed for what has happened.

Perhaps the most important thing we can offer is the reassurance that nobody has to understand or solve every difficulty alone. There are parents, relatives, teachers, counsellors, healthcare professionals, and other responsible adults who may be able to help. Not every person will immediately know what to say, and sometimes finding suitable support requires persistence. But struggling with something does not mean that a young person has exhausted every possibility for improvement.

As a Christian, I also find myself reflecting on how faith can accompany people during difficult experiences. Prayer has been part of my life for as long as I can remember, and I often turn to God when circumstances leave me uncertain. But I do not believe that faith should become a reason to overlook somebody’s emotional distress or discourage them from seeking professional assistance. Compassion can be expressed through prayer, certainly, but also through listening, practical support, appropriate treatment, and the willingness to remain involved when someone needs help.

I wish we were more careful with the words we use around people who are struggling. We cannot always know which remarks will remain in somebody’s memory, particularly when that person is already feeling vulnerable. A thoughtless joke, a dismissive response, or an impatient judgement may discourage someone from speaking again. Equally, a respectful conversation and a genuine effort to understand can help make it easier for a person to accept support. Words cannot solve every problem, but they can influence whether somebody feels comfortable taking the next step towards receiving help.

Last night, I found myself wishing I could somehow show that fourteen-year-old boy the many possibilities that still exist beyond the circumstances he is facing. I wished he could see the unfamiliar people he may eventually meet, the interests he might discover, and the ways his understanding of himself may change as he grows older. At fourteen, I certainly had no complete picture of the life I would be living at twenty-three. I did not know every challenge I would face during nursing school, every friendship that would develop, or the satisfaction I would eventually feel when I began practising as a Registered Nurse. Much of my future remained beyond anything I could imagine.

But I also know that we cannot simply hand somebody that perspective and expect their distress to disappear. Hope is not an instruction that people must follow correctly. It is something that may need to be supported through care, patience, practical assistance, and the gradual improvement of circumstances. Some problems resolve quickly, while others take time and require sustained help. What matters is that a person should not have to face those difficulties without support or be made to feel ashamed of needing it.

I am still learning how to become a better nurse, and experiences like this remind me that professional competence involves more than practical procedures. We must know how to respond to physical illness, but we must also recognise emotional vulnerability and understand when specialist assessment and safeguarding are necessary. We need to communicate respectfully with patients of different ages and remember that young people deserve to have their concerns heard rather than automatically interpreted through an adult’s assumptions.

I cannot know everything that lies ahead for the boy I encountered. His circumstances belong to him, and I would not presume to turn his private experience into a story with a convenient ending. What I can do is reflect upon the responsibility it represents. A young person in serious distress deserves compassionate care, appropriate professional support, and adults willing to take the situation seriously. His future should not be reduced to the difficulties he is experiencing at fourteen, nor should the seriousness of those difficulties be overlooked simply because he is young.

Perhaps that is what I will remember most from last night’s duty. I entered the hospital expecting to carry out the familiar responsibilities of nursing, but I was reminded that some patients arrive with concerns that cannot be understood through blood pressure readings, medication charts, or the ordinary observations we record. Their needs may require a different kind of attention, one that combines professional judgement with careful listening and respect for their individual circumstances.

When I think about my own adolescence, I remember how much importance I placed on things that later changed. I remember wanting approval, worrying about expectations, and imagining that growing older would somehow make life less complicated. I can laugh at some of those memories now, but I do not want that laughter to make me dismissive of young people who are still experiencing their own difficult years. The perspective I possess today was not available to me all at once. It developed through time, experience, mistakes, and the support of people who helped me understand the world a little better.

I hope every young person has the opportunity to gain that perspective in their own time. I hope they encounter adults who listen before judging, families who make room for difficult conversations, and communities that recognise emotional wellbeing as part of caring for one another. I hope those who are struggling receive the professional and personal support they need, and that their circumstances can improve without anyone expecting them to manage everything through determination alone.

I began this reflection thinking about how little a fourteen-year-old can know of the years still ahead. But perhaps there is something equally important that I, at twenty-three, must remember: I cannot know the full weight of somebody else’s experience simply because I have lived a few years longer. Age may provide perspective, but it does not automatically provide understanding. Sometimes the kindest thing an older person can do is resist the temptation to explain another person’s life and instead make an honest effort to listen.

Perhaps nursing will continue teaching me that lesson in different ways. There will be patients whose physical conditions challenge my clinical knowledge and others whose personal circumstances challenge the assumptions I bring into a conversation. I hope I remain willing to learn from both. I hope I become a nurse who recognises distress without judgement, responds appropriately when someone needs additional support, and remembers that every patient is a person whose experiences extend beyond the hospital bed.

As for the young boy I encountered last night, I hope he receives the understanding and care he deserves. I hope the adults responsible for supporting him recognise the seriousness of his distress and help him find ways forward that may not yet seem possible. I hope that as the years pass, he will have opportunities to discover interests, build meaningful relationships, and experience circumstances very different from those troubling him now.

Fourteen is an age for learning, making mistakes, discovering the world, and gradually becoming acquainted with the person one might grow into. It should not carry the expectation that every difficulty must already have an answer. Even at twenty-three, I am still figuring out a considerable number of things, and I suspect that the process will continue for many years.

Perhaps that is the message I most wish young people could hear. You are allowed to be uncertain about your future. You are allowed to find growing up difficult, to ask questions, to change your mind, and to need help from other people. The problems you face deserve attention, but they do not define everything that your life can become. There are possibilities beyond what you can presently see, and you do not have to discover them all by yourself.

Tonight, I will offer a prayer for the boy I encountered and for other young people facing difficulties they may not know how to explain. May they find people who take their concerns seriously, professionals who provide appropriate care, and communities where asking for help is met with understanding rather than judgement. May we, as adults and healthcare workers, become more attentive to the things young people are trying to tell us, particularly when their words are hesitant or difficult to express.

I started this reflection imagining all the things I would like a fourteen-year-old to understand about life. I am ending it with something I believe adults, including myself, need to learn as well. We cannot always make another person’s difficulties disappear, and we cannot promise that tomorrow will be easier simply because we want it to be. But we can listen, offer support, respond responsibly, and help make sure that a young person is not left to navigate serious distress alone.

The future is not something any of us can describe with certainty. At fourteen, at twenty-three, or at any age, there will always be experiences we have not yet encountered and changes we cannot anticipate.

And perhaps that is why every young person deserves the time, care, and opportunity to discover what those unwritten years may hold.

I wish they knew how much of their story is still waiting to be lived.

From my nursing memoirs, 2013 — a reflection on the emotional wellbeing of young people, the importance of compassionate listening, and the responsibility we share in helping those who are struggling.

— Just Anj, RN