There’s nothing easy about it.

(((((Okay, this is not a rant about my job. I’m actually working with the best team I’ve ever had, no kidding. We have our ups and downs, sure. We disagree a lot (like, dramatic soap-opera levels sometimes), but in the end, we’re united in one mission: to provide safe, dignified care to our residents. xoxx))))))

You witness people decline, sometimes slowly, like a candle burning out, and sometimes all at once, like someone just flipped the switch. Their frustration often lands on you, not because you did anything wrong, but simply because you’re there. They can’t wipe themselves anymore. Can’t walk to the shop. Can’t even enjoy a drink they used to love. And when you look at them, it hits you, they were just like us once. Trying to live, survive, laugh, love, and make sense of this messed-up system.

Over time, some just… give up. They start saying things like, “I just want to die.” And that’s when it really hits home why the turnover in this job is sky-high. This isn’t for the weak-hearted. You might need a therapist just to untangle the emotions you carry after one shift. You need grit. You need humor. You need a big, loud “WHY” to keep you going. Because eventually, the question sneaks in: Could this be me someday?

I used to see sudden death as unfair. Now, part of me wonders if it’s a mercy compared to the slow fade we often see.

You watch them go in and out of hospital, wait hours for ambulances, get poked for the nth blood test, endure procedures, confusion, and pain. And through it all, you grow a heart of steel, but you can’t let it turn you cold. You have to stay human. Because you’re the one who’s there, every single day. You’re the one who sees whether there’s still a spark of life left. And sometimes, you’re the one who has to fight for them… or gently let them go. Let them pass in peace and dignity. Sometimes, that’s the last and only thing you can give.

Often, all that’s left is to hold their hand. To sit beside them as they take their last breath. To hear their whispers “Did I live a good life?” or “I wish things had been different.”

And then there’s the families. Oh, the families. You meet every kind: the ones who vanish, the ones who show up too much, the ones who believe you’re a magician with a care plan instead of a wand. You smile through awkward conversations. You comfort people who forgot how to be kind. And when their loved one passes, you’re there again, this time, holding their hand, as they realize: This is it. I don’t have a parent or my husband/wife anymore. I’m on my own now.

Looking back, I wish I had a mentor when I started. Someone to say, “It’s okay to feel this much. You’re not broken. You’re human.” Someone who could help make sense of the chaos that comes with elderly care. I didn’t have that, but I can be that now. Because this whole “nurses eat their young” culture? It needs to end. It’s 2025. We should be lifting each other up, not crushing motivation or dumping unrealistic expectations on younger nurses just because they’re “stronger”, “younger” or “newer.”

And on top of it all? The stagnant pay. But hey, that’s a whole other novella.

So yes, my journey in the nursing home has been a wild ride of emotions. I’m still learning. Still evolving. But I know this for sure: this job breaks you and builds you, sometimes in the same breath. And for all the heartache, I wouldn’t trade it. (Okay, maybe I’d trade it for a raise. Or a foot massage. Or both.)