Nurses, We Do Hard Things

Before we go any further, let me say something personal.

In 2020, amidst the chaos of the pandemic, I found myself facing a challenge I never expected—a brain tumor diagnosis that brought me to my knees. One minute I was the nurse, pushing through vague symptoms I could explain away as stress. The next, I was the patient, sitting in an ER being told, “You’re not crazy—you have a marble-sized tumor in your head.”

I remember standing up, in shock, eyes welling with tears, and the doctor and nurse quietly saying… “I’m sorry.”

But I wasn’t dying. I was just facing hard. And I knew hard. I had lived hard. But for the first time, I felt it in my bones.

That moment changed how I show up as a nurse and as a man. It made me reflect on the hundreds of times I’d said, “I’m sorry” to a patient or family member—thinking I was offering compassion, when in truth, it often reinforced powerlessness and fear.

So I stopped saying, “I’m sorry.” And I started saying, “This is hard... But we do hard things.”

Because that’s what nurses do. And that phrase became more than a mantra—it became a mission.

Nurses, We Do Hard Things

There’s a storm brewing beneath the surface of nursing. Some of us have been shouting for change from the mountaintops. Others have been whispering it under their breath during a 12-hour shift, waiting for relief that never comes. Either way, we know the system is broken. That’s not new.

What’s new is this: we’re beginning to realize that no matter how loud we yell, the healthcare machine is slow to move. It’s big. It’s heavy. It’s tangled in red tape and policy and fear.

But here’s the real question: While we wait for the system to change… how will we change?

Because we still have work to do.

We’re still the ones who show up. We’re still the ones who hold trembling hands at 3 a.m. We’re still the ones who catch the subtle signs of sepsis when no one else is looking. We’re still the ones who get people through their darkest nights.

Nursing is hard. But we do hard things.

That phrase? It’s more than a chapter title. It’s a way of life. A truth I’ve lived through every mess, mistake, meltdown, and miracle.

There was a time when I tried to avoid the hard. I searched for the soft path—the easy route. And when life didn’t cooperate, I got angry. I blamed. I played the victim. The system. My boss. My schedule. My coworkers. All of it. But somewhere along the way, I realized… the easy path didn’t exist. The only path was through.

I grew up with a tough dad. No silver spoons, no sugar-coating. He pushed me to my edge. Sometimes I broke. But he gave me a gift that saved me later: a work ethic so deeply rooted it became my anchor. When life threw emotional curveballs, I learned to lean into hard work—not to avoid my feelings, but to keep moving. To show up. To sweat. To serve.

Yes, I’ve felt like I was lazy. I’ve felt like quitting. I’ve made decisions I regret. But I also learned this: you can fall down, forgive yourself, and begin again. That is strength. That is grace. And we need more of it in this profession.

We nurses… we give until it hurts. Then we give more. Until resentment creeps in like a shadow we pretend not to see. We blame the system, the policy, the manager, the night shift. But here’s the truth we don’t want to admit:

Sometimes, we are wounded healers.

We enter this profession with invisible scars, hoping to fix others because no one ever taught us how to fix ourselves. We become over-functioning, under-supported, and emotionally tapped out. We want change—but sometimes, we don’t want to change.

What if healing the profession starts with healing the person in the mirror?

I’ve often joked that nurses need their own 12-step recovery program—for overgiving, overfunctioning, and overidentifying with being "the strong one." And I’m not saying that with sarcasm. I’m saying it from a place of deep understanding. We can’t keep pouring from an empty cup and expecting ourselves not to crack.

So what do we do?

We lead—but from the inside out.

We mentor—not by making people feel small, but by calling them higher.

We have hard conversations—with ourselves and each other, wrapped in truth, not shame.

Nursing school was hard. Bootcamp-level hard. And you know what? I’m glad it was. Because when you’re in an ICU making split-second decisions, you don’t want someone who barely made it through with accommodations and excuses. You want someone who dug deep, faced the pressure, and came out stronger. Nursing requires resilience.

Yes, there’s room for compassion. Yes, there’s room for reform. But let’s not lose the fire that forges us. Sometimes it’s in the breakdown that the breakthrough comes. That’s when we truly learn to empathize—with our patients, our coworkers, and ourselves.

Let’s stop pretending this profession is supposed to be easy. Let’s stop apologizing for how hard it is. Let’s stop blaming and start building.

Because we’re not just nurses. We’re soldiers of the soul. We walk through fire for others. And sometimes, we walk through it for ourselves.

We do hard things. And we will keep doing them—not because we have to, but because we’re called to.

And it’s time we honored that calling with the same strength, vulnerability, and honesty we give to everyone else.