What I listen to while I work isn’t always music. It isn’t always beautiful. And it isn’t always mine to choose.

When I’m in uniform—hair tied back, ID badge swinging, mind alert but heart quietly bracing—I listen to the sounds of a world that demands everything and explains nothing. I listen to the beeping of monitors—steady or chaotic, and sometimes silent, which is worst of all. I hear the wheels of stretchers, the shuffle of feet on cold linoleum, the occasional groan of pain or the urgent hush of voices trying not to alarm the patient while alerting everyone else. There are phone calls mid-resuscitation. The rattling of the drug trolley. The crackle of radios when something’s escalated.

Sometimes, I hear crying. Sometimes from patients. Sometimes from family. And sometimes, later—quietly, in the staff room—from nurses.

These are the sounds of my work in the hospital. Sounds you don’t stream. Sounds you carry.

And when I come home—still half in that world—I cannot always dive straight into music. Sometimes I need a moment. To sit in the in-between. To let the weight of everything I heard (and everything I couldn’t say) settle. To remember that I am not just a nurse or a provider—I am still a person. I am still a soul.

So what do I listen to while I work at my desk, or when I write, or when I attempt to reclaim the softer pieces of myself?

It depends on what kind of work I’m doing, and what kind of silence I’m returning from.

When I’m writing tenderly—crafting a blog post, drafting another page of my book, or reflecting on the day’s unspoken lessons—I listen to music that doesn’t demand too much of me. Piano instrumentals. Einaudi, Joep Beving, Yiruma. Their melodies don’t intrude. They make room. They sit beside you like a quiet friend who doesn’t rush your thoughts. I often light a candle too, as if scent and sound together help me unpeel the armor I wear during shifts.

When I’m writing something heavy, something deeply personal—maybe a memory I’ve avoided, or a grief I’m finally ready to face—I choose slow, lyrical music that mirrors my pace. Sometimes “Fix You” plays on repeat for an hour. Sometimes it’s River Flows in You. Sometimes I search for Korean OSTs that sound like autumn and ache. These songs don’t have to make sense linguistically. Emotion speaks in chords, not words.

When I need strength—not the kind people clap for, but the kind that helps you keep going through the quiet battles—I listen to worship music. “Oceans,” “Rescue,” “Goodness of God,” or “Yet Not I But Through Christ in Me.” These songs are not background noise. They are lifelines. When I’m exhausted, when I feel I’ve given too much of myself away, I let these songs remind me who I am. Or more truthfully—whose I am. They remind me I don’t have to hold it all together. That I am allowed to lean.

Then there are days when I don’t want to listen to anything. Not because I’m sad, but because the world is simply too loud. The hospital was loud. My inbox is loud. My thoughts are loud. And in those moments, I return to the sound of real life:
The rustling of a blanket. The rhythmic purr of my cat Millie as she curls against me, as if to say, “You’re home now.” The soft tick of the clock. The neighbor’s footsteps above. Rain, if I’m lucky. A kettle boiling. The sound of nothing spectacular—but everything grounding.

And perhaps, in this season of life, this is what I crave most: grounding. Not distraction. Not constant stimulation. Just something honest, something steady, something that doesn’t ask me to be “on.”

Because the truth is, sound is more than entertainment. It’s atmosphere. It’s memory. It’s medicine.

Sometimes it is a shield. Sometimes it’s a mirror. Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes us feel less alone.

I listen to the weight of the day, the pulse of my thoughts, and the mood of my soul. I listen to music that doesn’t demand a performance from me. I listen to silence that doesn’t judge me for needing it. I listen to reminders that I am still human beneath the doing. And I let those sounds carry me through the work of remembering that even in a noisy world—I still have the right to listen gently.