Originally posted last March 2018

Nurse-Anjventure Begins

There’s a particular kind of satisfaction that comes after surviving a whirlwind day shift—the kind that leaves your feet aching but your soul strangely full. I remember stepping into those early shifts as a newly qualified nurse, unsure of my place in the pecking order of a busy ward, but ready to learn. The rhythm of daytime nursing was so different from the eerie quiet of night duty. The halls were louder, the atmosphere more alert, and life seemed to move in double time. There were more doctors scribbling orders mid-stride, more discharges that felt like beat-the-clock missions, more interruptions, more questions—and yes, more people stealing my seat every single time I stood up for just a second. But in the middle of that chaos, there was something grounding. For once, I was awake with the rest of the world, surrounded by light, by purpose, by a kind of noise that meant something. It was exhausting, yes. But it was also real.

Then there were the nights. The other side of the coin. Night shifts have a way of draining you slowly—not with speed, but with silence. By 4 a.m., I often felt like a shell of myself: mind foggy, limbs heavy, emotions thinned out like watered-down coffee. You fall asleep at 8 in the morning, wake up sometime past four in the afternoon, and still feel like you’ve barely rested. It’s a kind of fatigue that wraps around your bones, one you can’t shake off with a nap or a hot shower. And the worst part? People assume your post-shift day is a “day off,” when in truth, it’s just you in recovery mode—rebooting like a laptop stuck in sleep mode, catching up on hydration, meals, and moments you missed. It’s like jet lag, except the only place you traveled was the hallway between patients and the med room.

In those early months, I learned a lot—mostly from experience, but also from observation. And if I’m being brutally honest, one of the things I wasn’t prepared for was how exhausting some patients could be—not just physically, but emotionally. You expect the elderly to need you. You expect children to cry. But no one tells you about the fully grown adults—especially the young men—who become the most demanding ones on the floor. I had one patient who moaned dramatically every time he moved an inch post-appendectomy. His call bell became his best friend. And don’t get me started on the family members who follow you around the ward like you’re on a cooking show and they’re just waiting to shout, “Time’s up!” Some are kind, even lovely. But others? They challenge every ounce of your patience—repeating the same questions you’ve already answered, interrupting mid-procedure, treating you like a 24/7 hotline for updates. And still, you’re expected to smile. To nod. To understand. Welcome to modern healthcare, where clinical skills meet the emotional labor of customer service.

But beyond the frustrations, nursing gave me something I never expected: a sharper sense of self. Slowly, I started to collect quiet lessons I knew I’d carry with me for life. Lessons like this: you won’t know everything at once, and that’s okay. Ask the question, even if you feel embarrassed. Learn your unit layout like your life depends on it—because sometimes, it does. Never underestimate the value of tape. Work with your team, not against them; no one gets a gold medal for burning out alone. Leave the ward when your shift ends—mentally and emotionally. Let go. Rest. Hand over the burden as you hand over the chart. Own your mistakes with humility; they will teach you faster than any training session ever could. And above all, do not carry everyone else’s expectations home with you. Respect your seniors, yes, but don’t shrink yourself. You are allowed to take up space, even when you’re new.

The longer I stayed, the more I realized how much I’d grown. There were moments when student nurses began asking me questions—and I’d instinctively turn, surprised they were directing it to me. That moment always jolted me: Oh. I know this answer now. It was a quiet revelation. Proof that I wasn’t the same overwhelmed girl who first stepped into that ward months before. I had learned. I had changed. I had endured.

Nursing, I’ve come to understand, is a profession that stretches your capacity in every possible way. You give, and give, and give—until one day, you realize that what you’re giving isn’t just clinical care. You’re giving patience. Reassurance. Dignity. Presence. And often, all of that while barely having time to eat, or even sit. It’s a job where you carry too much and still show up. Where you cry in the locker room, wipe your tears, and return to the bedside like nothing happened. It’s messy. It’s raw. But it’s also holy work. The kind that teaches you what it means to be human and to serve others in their most fragile states without needing applause or recognition.

I’m still learning. Still growing. Still tired. But still showing up. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s exactly what this season is about—not perfection, not being the best, but being present. Being willing. Being real.

With all my love and caffeine,
Anj xx