First Impressions

It’s 3:22 a.m.

I’m a night shift nurse.

The world as we know it — tucked in, turned off, fast asleep.

Trying to write this first post feels like choosing a first-date outfit. I want to make a statement. Something bold. Don’t first impressions matter?

I smirk to myself, slapping keys in the corner of the nurse’s station. The soft beeps of monitors, the hum of the ice machine, call lights buzzing, my mental checklist of vitals, pain meds, assessments.

Entering the hospital room of strangers, smile on, compassion loaded, a rolodex of roles at the ready. Being a nurse means being part chameleon. I become what that patient needs: soft and calm, tough love, blunt and to the point. Meeting their needs in ways we rarely talk about.

The chances of my name being remembered? Slim to none. Does that change how I show up? Absolutely not.

But do I crave a place where I can drop the mask and be unapologetically me? On a cellular level!

So here’s mine, for you — my first impression.

This blog is my voice. The one that’s been shushed my whole life. It’s where I spill the stories beneath the smiles, the truths tucked inside suffering, the jagged joy of being alive in a body built for survival.

Life is messy. I see tragedy and sadness through the eyes of my patients. Then I look at my own life and wonder: why can’t I be exuberantly happy in the absence of their pain? Is guilt part of the recipe for happiness? Is shame?

That’s the muddy truth I’m here to unpack: can we ever feel true happiness without knowing pain?

How do we navigate this life not knowing the answer to an age-old question: what’s my purpose?

First-date jitters are weakening as I pour words onto the screen. I can’t contain the essence of who I am. I can mask, restrict, hold it in — but eventually, I escape. Some sarcasm, a wild expression, hand gestures for days, my raw edges.

I question posting this.

Fuck it.

Why not?

Why am I so hellbent on restricting myself?

I have mastered confidence even when I’m absolutely unsure. I’ve learned how to calm others in the face of trauma. Soothing, calm, steady on the outside — while inside, I’m sometimes screaming.

So of course, I can post this.

I held my grieving mother as she screamed for my deceased father. I scrubbed his blood from their bedroom carpet.

I can do hard things.

This? This is nothing.

See you on our second date.

Hits publish.