TO BE HUMAN

They say serious circumstances bring out the best in us. But just as often, they expose the parts of us we’d rather not face—the fear, the anger, the loneliness we try to bury beneath routines and noise. And if there’s one thing this pandemic has done, it’s made the world quieter. Suddenly, we were left with only our thoughts, our grief, and the mirror of reality staring back.

I am one of many—just another nurse on the frontline. But when I say “just,” I don’t mean it lightly. I mean it truthfully. Because there are thousands of us, millions even, showing up each day with tired eyes, aching backs, and hearts that carry more than we let on. I’ve faced countless patients during this time—some who recovered, others who didn’t. Each one left something with me. A glance, a prayer, a final goodbye I’ll never forget. And yes—my family worries. My mother once whispered, “Anak, you don’t have to be a hero,” and I told her, “But maybe I already became one the day I put on this uniform.”

Am I afraid? Yes. Every time I walk through hospital doors, I pray that fear won’t cripple me. That my shaking hands will steady. That I can still offer comfort to a stranger even while wearing PPE that hides my smile. There are moments it feels unreal—like we’re living in the pages of a dystopian novel. But this isn’t fiction. This is our world. And I swore an oath. One I repeat quietly to myself in the restroom when I need a minute to cry, to breathe, to remind myself why I do what I do.

Because in between the heartbreak, I’ve learned so much.

When we choose compassion over fear, science over stubbornness, and faith over despair, we become something stronger. Something more human.

COVID-19 has taught me that crises don’t create our character—they reveal it. The cracks in our systems, in our communities, in our souls—they show under pressure. I’ve seen people rise to protect each other, and others retreat into fear, blame, and disbelief. This virus didn’t check passports or belief systems. It crossed every border and forced us to realize that no matter how different we think we are, we are all vulnerable. And yet—when we choose compassion over fear, science over stubbornness, and faith over despair, we become something stronger. Something more human.

I’ve seen patients die without family by their side. I’ve held their hands when no one else could. I’ve watched families say goodbye over grainy video calls, their sobs breaking through WiFi lags. And through it all, I kept thinking—basic decency matters. Washing your hands, wearing a mask, checking in on someone—these things aren’t just medical recommendations. They’re acts of love.

There were days I wanted to quit. Days I sat in silence, unable to speak, let alone write. But then I remembered what my faith taught me: even in the valley of shadows, God walks with us. Faith sees in the dark. It doesn’t mean the fear disappears—it means we keep walking anyway, trusting in the light we cannot yet see.

And perhaps, most importantly, this season reminded me to slow down. In a world obsessed with hustle, this virus forced us to pause. To sit with discomfort. To remember who we are without the noise. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the lesson we were always meant to learn.

Let me leave you with a verse that anchored me during every shift, every loss, every moment of doubt:

“The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer,
My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge;
My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.”
— Psalm 18:2

This too shall pass.

And when it does, I hope we don’t just go back to “normal.” I hope we come back to each other—kinder, braver, more willing to listen, and more committed to what matters. Let us not waste the pain. Let it shape us into something softer. Stronger. More human.

With love,
Anj 🤍