People often assume that nurses stay because they love it.
That if we’re still here, it must mean we’re fulfilled, certain, or called in a way that leaves no room for doubt. But the truth is, staying isn’t always fueled by clarity. Sometimes it’s fueled by familiarity. By responsibility. By moments that still matter, even when the weight of the work feels heavier than the love for it.
I still show up — not because it’s simple, but because it’s complicated. And I’m learning that maybe that’s the most honest place for many of us to begin.
There are days I show up to work operating on what I call reserve battery — and I know I’m not the only one who walks onto a unit already running low.
The kind of day where there isn’t much left to give. Where I drag myself in, already negotiating with myself about how this is it. I tell myself I’ll go home, open job sites, and seriously consider a different path — something quieter, lighter, easier to carry. I wonder how many of us have had that same conversation with ourselves on the drive home.
There have been seasons where I told myself I was still here for the paycheck. Where that explanation felt easier than admitting how complicated my relationship with nursing had become. I imagine I’m not alone in that rationalization — telling ourselves a practical story when the emotional one feels harder to sit with.
And yet, even in those moments, my heart disagreed. It kept responding to things money alone can’t explain.
Then I walk onto the unit.
I see familiar faces. Coworkers who, over time, have quietly become family. The ones who know my rhythms, my tells, my version of humor when I’m tired. We trade the same inside jokes we’ve been telling for years. We push through together — sometimes in ways that probably aren’t the healthiest. We survive on snacks that have no nutritional value and a shared understanding that today might be a lot.
These are the moments that remind me how much of nursing is carried in community, even when we don’t name it that way.
And somehow, my mood softens.
Some days, it’s a patient who changes everything.
I remember one morning when a patient looked at me and said, “I’m really lucky you’re my nurse today.” He went on to say he could tell I knew what I was doing — but more than that, that my compassion was evident.
Just like that, I fell back in love with nursing again.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No big save. Just a reminder that presence matters. That being seen as both capable and kind still means something. Patient encounters — big or small — have a way of pulling many of us back every time. I wonder how many of us carry moments like that — brief, unexpected reminders that still tether us to this work.
Another day, I was assigned a nursing student.
And suddenly, I had no choice but to show up fully. To put my best game face on. To usher her into the world of nursing in a way that would hopefully stay with her long after that shift ended. I wanted her to remember not just the skills, but the humanity. To see nursing as something complicated, yes — but meaningful.
Moments like that remind me that how we show up doesn’t just affect us. It quietly shapes the culture we’re handing to the next generation.
That’s when it hit me.
This relationship many of us have with nursing — it’s complicated. The roots of love are there. They run deep. But it can be exhausting. Challenging. The kind of relationship that makes you question why you’re still in it — especially on days when everything that can go wrong goes wrong right after huddle.
If I’m honest, I don’t always have a clean answer for why I stay.
Some days, it’s the people I work alongside — the quiet understanding, the shared glances, the way we hold each other up when no one else sees. Other days, it’s a patient encounter that reminds me that presence still matters. And sometimes, it’s the responsibility of being an example — knowing that how we show up might shape someone else’s understanding of what nursing can be.
I talk to friends in other careers sometimes — different industries, different rhythms — and more often than not, I’m reminded that the grass isn’t necessarily greener. It’s just different.
Those conversations slow me down. They invite a heart check. Not because nursing suddenly feels easier, but because they help me clarify what actually matters to me — what I’m willing to carry, and what I’m not. They make me curious about how often we compare paths without giving ourselves permission to honor what we’re already holding.
None of this feels neat. Or heroic. Or easy to explain.
But maybe staying doesn’t always need a polished reason. Maybe it’s okay that the answer shifts depending on the day, the season, or the version of ourselves that’s doing the staying.
For now, I still show up. Even when it’s complicated.
And I wonder —
what keeps us here on the days we’re running on reserve battery?
What might we still be untangling about why we stay?
You don’t need a perfect answer.
Sometimes noticing the question is enough.
