The Healthcare Hero

Call me crazy, but I see something most people aren’t talking about.

For years, we’ve been operating in a system that’s felt more like a battlefield than a sanctuary for healing. And while we may not carry rifles, many of us carry something far heavier: invisible wounds.

These are the kind of wounds you can’t see on CT scans or bloodwork. They don’t show up in H&P reports or morning huddles. These are soul wounds. Moral injuries. The result of too many moments where we knew what was right… but couldn’t do it. Where we bore witness to pain we couldn’t prevent. Where we gave everything—and still felt like it wasn’t enough.

And then COVID-19 came.

Let’s be honest: COVID didn’t start the war. It simply exposed it. It blew the doors off the battlefield and forced the world to see what we’d been living with behind the scenes. And what we saw during that time? It brought even the strongest of us to our knees.

We witnessed things we never imagined. People isolated in their final moments. Families begging to say goodbye. Resources stretched beyond comprehension. Leadership fumbling. Politics clouding truth. And us—frontline workers—caught in the crossfire.

We held hands with the dying through layers of PPE. We relayed final words through video screens. We fought exhaustion, fear, and the unknown. Every. Single. Day.

And still—we showed up.

At first, the world called us heroes. Remember that? The signs in the yards. The clapping at 7 p.m. The free coffee. It was beautiful. For a moment, we were seen.

But then... silence.

The signs came down. The applause faded. The coffee stopped. And we were left holding the weight of what we’d just been through—exhausted, disoriented, traumatized—and expected to just keep going.

And many did. But many didn’t.

Some walked away from 20-year careers to do something totally different. Not because they stopped caring, but because they couldn’t carry it anymore. Some changed careers. Some numbed out. Some stayed, but shut down. And tragically, some didn’t survive at all.

COVID was one of the most challenging seasons in modern history—and not just globally, but personally. It stripped us down to our core. It exposed who we are under pressure. We saw the best in people... and we saw the worst. We saw courage and compassion, yes. But we also saw fear.

We lost people. Some we worked beside. Some we loved. Some we could not save.

But we also found something.

In the middle of the chaos, we found a mirror. We found a confrontation with ourselves. We were faced with the truth of what this profession had become… and what it was costing us.

And that’s the part we can’t afford to ignore anymore.

You see, we are the veterans of a war that no one recognized as a war. A silent, soul-stealing, spirit-crushing war that’s been raging for decades in hospital hallways, ER bays, back stairwells, and break rooms. COVID just made it visible.

What we’re dealing with isn’t just “burnout.” It’s battle fatigue. And no one taught us how to rest. No one taught us how to heal.

Instead, they handed us another shift. Another short-staffed assignment. Another “suck it up and keep going.”

But what if we stopped waiting for someone else to save us?

What if we stopped expecting the system to change, and started changing ourselves?

Not out of bitterness. Not from a victim mindset. But from radical ownership. From courage. From clarity. From community.

What if we created our own version of the VFW—Veterans of Frontline Work? A place to be real. To tell the truth. To stop apologizing for the toll this calling has taken.

What if we stopped pretending… and started healing together?

—a tribe, a safe space—for the veterans in scrubs?

What if we stopped hiding our pain and started honoring it?

Because you’re not weak. You’re wounded.

And that person who seems angry, checked out, or short with you? Maybe they’re not a bad person. Maybe they’re battle-fatigued. Maybe they’re carrying stories that no one’s ever asked them about. Maybe, like you, they’re still bleeding silently behind a mask that says,

“I’m fine.”

This is the call.

We don’t need more managers—we need more foxhole leaders. The kind who sit beside us, not above us. Who check on our souls, not just our stats.

Who ask,  “What do you need?” instead of, “Why are you behind?”

We need each other.

This is the season not of resistance, but of remembrance. Remember who you are. Remember why you started. Remember that you’re not alone.

It’s time to heal—not just the system, but ourselves. It’s time to rest, reflect, and rise. Not out of anger, but from a place of deep love for our profession, our calling, and our fellow warriors in scrubs.

So to my fellow veterans of the silent war:

I see you. I honor you. And I walk beside you. You’re not broken. You’re battle-tested.

Remember “We Do Hard Things”

Here is my story of We Do Hard Things

For all my brothers and sisters 👇