Sand Between Shifts

Welcome to the In-Between

  • Take Me to the Beach

    There’s something about the beach that softens everything sharp. It softens my shoulders, my breath, my grip on the never-ending to-do list I carry in my head like a shadow. It’s the one place where I can truly exhale. Not just the kind of exhale we fake between tasks, but the kind that feels like it comes from somewhere deep in the chest as if my soul finally unclenched.

    At home, I struggle to sit still. My couch can feel like a trap, my phone a constant buzz of reminders and expectations. Even rest starts to feel like another box I need to check off properly. And so I pace. I clean. I worry. I do, and do, and do, until I forget what it means to simply be.

    But take me to the beach, and suddenly, the rules change.

    It doesn’t matter if I’ve been productive that week or if my inbox is overflowing. It doesn’t matter what time it is, what day it is, or how many things I should be doing. When my toes hit the sand, and the sound of the waves rises to meet me, all that noise just… dissolves. There’s only sunshine, salt air, and the rhythm of the ocean, like a lullaby for the nervous system.

    It’s not just the peace; it’s the permission. The beach gives me the rare and sacred permission to rest without guilt. To lie back in my chair, put on some country or rock (depending on the mood), and let the world go on without me for a little while. And somehow, it always does.

    The ocean speaks in a language that bypasses the mind entirely. It’s not logical or productive. It’s primal and timeless. When I sit at the edge of it all, waves rushing in and out, gulls circling above, the sun dipping lower, I remember who I am outside of the rush. I remember what matters. I remember how blessed I am.

    And the best part? I get to share that space with someone I love. My boyfriend and I have made the beach a sacred place for ourselves. It is our quiet retreat, a reset button, a memory bank that we keep building together. There’s nothing better than sitting side by side, feeling the breeze tangle through your hair, exchanging a glance that says: Yeah, this is the good stuff.

    The beach reminds me that life doesn’t always have to be a race or a performance. Sometimes, it’s enough to exist. To breathe. To feel joy without conditions.

    So, if you’re like me, if you ever find yourself stuck in that loop of doing, fixing, and proving, consider this your invitation to unplug. To find your shore. To trade burnout for bare feet and pressure for peace. Take a break, take a beat, and take yourself to the beach.

    You might just find that everything you were searching for was waiting for you in the waves all along.

  • When the Unexpected Happens: Learning to Stay Steady

    There’s this moment, maybe you’ve felt it too, when something at work veers off the usual path. A monitor flashes a reading you’ve never seen before. A process suddenly fails. A piece of equipment you’ve relied on a hundred times decides today is the day it won’t work. And you’re the one standing there, expected to know what to do.

    In those moments, my mind races. My stomach tightens. I can feel the heat rise in my face. I’ve always had this tendency to get anxious when something unfamiliar pops up, especially at work. It’s like my nervous system doesn’t pause to ask, “Is this truly an emergency?” before launching into full-blown alarm mode.

    In healthcare, sometimes it is a matter of life and death. Our environments are fast-paced and high-stakes, and a certain level of vigilance becomes second nature. But not everything is a crisis. Some things are just unexpected. Unfamiliar. Inconvenient. Solvable.

    And still, I’ve noticed how quickly I jump to worst-case thinking, how I internalize the problem, replay every moment, and get stuck in my head even after the issue is resolved. The self-awareness is there, for better or worse. I recognize my overreactions almost as soon as they happen, which can be both a gift and a frustration. I see the spiral as it’s happening, and I wish I could stop it in its tracks.

    Lately, I’ve been reflecting on what it would look like to have a more grounded, measured response when things don’t go as planned. To slow down before reacting. To trust that I’m capable, even when the problem is new. To remind myself that I don’t have to know everything to find a solution and that most challenges can be worked through with time, teamwork, and a deep breath.

    Perspective is powerful. I just wish I could access it in the moment, not just in hindsight. Because when I zoom out, once the moment has passed, I can see how inflated my reaction was. How the thing that felt catastrophic was really just… a hiccup. A lesson. An opportunity to practice resourcefulness.

    So here’s what I’m working on: giving myself more grace when the unexpected happens. Building a mental pause button. Letting the first wave of emotion pass before deciding how to act. And asking myself: is this truly urgent, or just unfamiliar?

    Not every problem needs panic. Some just need patience.

    If you’re wired like me, if you feel things deeply and react quickly, I see you. It’s hard to change the wiring. But even the smallest shifts in awareness can soften the response. And maybe, over time, those small shifts become our new baseline.

    We’re all learning. We’re all adapting. And with each unexpected moment, we get the chance to try again.

  • Blackberry Moments

    Welcome to a new kind of conversation. One that walks beside you instead of rushing ahead. This space, much like a quiet path on a slow afternoon, is where we notice the smaller things. The meaningful things. The ones we usually overlook while racing from one task to the next.

    I’ve been meaning to begin this journey for a while. The idea sat with me for months, maybe years. I told myself I would start when I felt more ready, more polished, more certain. But the truth is, waiting for perfect conditions often means waiting forever. So here I am, showing up anyway. No fancy setup, no script written in stone, just an open heart and a desire to connect. If you’re here, thank you for walking this path with me.

    Recently, I read Unscripted by Ernie Johnson Jr., the longtime host of Inside the NBA. If you’ve ever seen the show, you know him as the guy alongside Shaq, Charles Barkley, and Kenny Smith. But his book is not about sports commentary. It’s about life. Honest, messy, soulful life. It made me laugh, cry, and pause in the best way possible.

    One of the stories he shares has stayed with me, and I think it will stay with you too. Early in the book, he introduces the idea of what he calls blackberry moments. He defines them simply as moments so sweet that you savor the taste for a lifetime.

    The name comes from a story about a little league baseball game he played as a kid. During the game, someone hit a ball way out into the outfield, far enough to disappear over the fence. While everyone paused to wait for the ball to be retrieved, the outfielders didn’t come back right away. When the coaches went to look for them, they found the boys standing in a patch of wild blackberry bushes just beyond the fence, happily picking and eating the berries.

    They forgot about the game for a moment. They were caught up in the sweetness of what was right in front of them. That image struck me. Because isn’t that how life often works? We’re focused on the rules and the routines, doing what we’re supposed to do, and then something unexpected and beautiful catches our attention. It’s often small and fleeting, but somehow it stays with us.

    Ernie weaves blackberry moments throughout the book. They are not grand or showy. They’re quiet, real, and deeply human. And they got me thinking about my own.

    One that always comes to mind is a memory from my childhood. It happened more than once, but each time felt just as vivid. When I was around seven or eight, our family had a little routine. Once a week, my mom, my brother, my Mommom, and I would pile into the car and drive to Santori’s, our local deli and produce market. It wasn’t a far drive, but Mommom always used those few minutes to start rattling off our list. Turkey. Ham. American cheese. All the staples.

    Once we got there, we’d split up. My mom and brother would head to the produce section, while Mommom and I made a beeline for the deli counter. That’s where the real magic happened. I’d grab one of those little paper number tickets and clutch it like it was a winning lottery ticket. My whole focus became listening for our number. I took that job seriously. When they finally called it, I would walk up with purpose and recite our order with total confidence. Half a pound of turkey. Half a pound of ham. A pound of American cheese.

    Almost every time, the deli clerk would smile and hand me a slice of cheese before weighing it. That moment made my entire week. I felt important. Like I belonged in the world of grown-ups.

    After we paid and loaded everything into the car, Mommom would always open the bag of cold cuts on the ride home. The four of us would sit in the car, snacking and chatting, with the sun pouring through the windows. I remember the feel of the warm sun on my face and the salty taste of that slice of cheese. It was just an ordinary afternoon. But it was also so much more than that.

    That was a blackberry moment.

    It didn’t change the direction of my life. It didn’t announce itself as something profound. But it lingered. It settled into my bones the way only true sweetness can.

    Blackberry moments aren’t big. They aren’t dramatic. They don’t scream for your attention. They wait patiently inside the folds of your day, hoping you’ll pause long enough to notice them. They show up in the way your child’s hand fits in yours. In the way your dog greets you when you walk in the door. In the way a song makes you feel seen. Or the way your coffee tastes better when you have a minute to actually enjoy it.

    We miss so many of these moments because we are busy, distracted, or convinced that only the big stuff matters. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Ernie’s book, and from my own reflections, it’s this: the small things are the big things. The joy is already here. The softness, the beauty, the humanity — it’s all here, tucked inside the mundane.

    So as you go about your week, I hope you’ll keep your eyes open for your own blackberry moments. Don’t worry about chasing something extraordinary. Just be present enough to catch the ordinary while it’s happening.

    Thanks for taking this walk with me. I’ll be back again soon. But until then, take care of yourself. And keep your heart open to the sweet stuff.

  • Making a House a Home

    This past weekend wasn’t glamorous or grand, but it was the kind that lingers. The kind that quietly reminds you how lucky you are to live in your own little corner of the world.

    Our home isn’t “new” in the modern, pristine sense. Built in the ’60s, it carries the kind of character that only time can give; good bones, warm energy, and the subtle charm of history lived in. But like any meaningful relationship, a house becomes a home when you tend to it, love on it, and make it a reflection of your spirit.

    That’s precisely what I set out to do this weekend.

    Saturday began with a trip to one of my favorite places, Historic Smithville Village. If you’ve ever wandered its walkways, you know there’s a certain kind of magic in the air there. Amid the small shops and smiling faces, I found a beautiful birdhouse that felt like it belonged in our yard. I also couldn’t resist picking up another garden gnome (yes, I’m aware this might be turning into a mild obsession, but what can I say? They make me smile!).

    After that, I popped into Dollar General for a quick browse and left genuinely impressed. Their outdoor decor section was surprisingly lovely, budget-friendly, and full of charm. I found a sweet little birdfeeder and, of course, added a few more gnomes to the collection. At this point, the gnome community in our yard is beginning to rival our local HOA.

    Sunday was spent with soil on my hands and sun on my shoulders. Some of our plants were ready for roomier homes, so I repotted them and gave them a bit more breathing space. To fill the now-empty smaller pots, I headed to Bob’s Garden Center, which always has just what I didn’t know I needed. Among the new additions was a plant I can’t name (my apologies to my fellow plant lovers), but it reminds me of a miniature fairy tree; whimsical, delicate, and quietly magical. It’s already my favorite.

    As the day came to a close, I took a step back and looked around:

    The new birdhouse now hangs near the tree line.

    Birdfeeders are gently swaying in the breeze.

    New flowers are settling into their pots, while older ones are beginning to bloom with confidence.

    And on our front porch, tucked into one of the hanging baskets, a bird nest has come to life. The eggs have hatched, and the tiniest, fuzziest little chicks now call it home.

    It was one of those full-circle moments. As I stood in the yard, watering plants and brushing dirt off my knees, I felt it: the house had deepened its sense of home. Not because of new things, but because of intention, care, and love.

    I’m grateful for these peaceful, grounding moments in between shifts and schedules. Grateful for the birds that visit, the plants that grow, the little gnomes that stand guard. And most of all, thankful for this beautiful life, rooted in a home that’s becoming more us with each passing weekend.

  • When the Day Follows You Home

    Tuesday was a hard day.

    I’m not talking about the kind of hard that comes from missed meals or back-to-back cases (though those have their toll, too). I mean the kind of hard that lingers in your chest after the monitor alarms quiet down. The kind that follows you home. The kind that makes you sit in your car in the driveway and cry just a little, hoping the tears will create space for something lighter.

    It was one of those days where everywhere I looked, I saw people suffering in ways that go beyond physical pain. Patients with complex, advanced illnesses. Families who haven’t left the hospital in days. Exhausted faces in waiting rooms, carrying silent prayers in their eyes. And I couldn’t help but feel a heaviness, a deep, aching compassion, for what they were going through.

    There’s a unique tension in healthcare: this ever-present blend of gratitude and grief. On the one hand, I am overwhelmingly thankful for my health, the well-being of my family, and the strength to serve. However, on the other hand, I’m deeply affected by what I witness. Being close to sickness, especially the kind that lingers or complicates, brings into sharp focus how fragile and sacred good health truly is.

    In my role, I strive to be a steady, uplifting presence. I greet patients and families with a warm smile, explain things patiently, advocate for them, listen attentively, and show up every day with my heart open. I want people to feel that they’re not alone, that someone sees them, not just as a diagnosis or a chart, but as human beings navigating one of the most difficult times of their lives.

    But sometimes, I wish I could do more.

    Sometimes, I leave the hospital wondering if my kindness or calm tone made any difference. Sometimes, I feel like my efforts are a drop in a vast ocean of suffering. And while I know rationally that every drop matters, that presence, empathy, and consistency can be lifelines, the emotional weight of it all still adds up.

    This week, I’ve had to remind myself that it’s okay to feel these things. Being affected isn’t a weakness; it’s part of the privilege of this work. We get to see humanity raw and unfiltered, and that means sometimes we absorb the sorrow, too.

    If you’re a fellow clinician reading this and you’ve had your own “driveway cry,” I want you to know you’re not alone. You are not failing because you feel deeply. You are human. And in being human, you give your patients something that machines and medicine can’t offer: you provide them with care that comes from the soul.

    To anyone walking through a season of heaviness, inside or outside the hospital walls, I hope you find small moments to breathe, cry, reflect, and reset. May we all hold a little extra gratitude for our health, our families, and the strength to do what we do, even on the tough days.

  • Memorial Day Weekend Reflections: Gratitude, Garden Statues, and Boardwalk Bliss

    This past Memorial Day Weekend was one for the books. The Jersey Shore weather was a little breezy, but the skies stayed bright, and we made the absolute most of it. The kind of weekend that makes you pause and truly soak in how good life can be.

    Saturday kicked off with a solo trip to the Somers Point farmer’s market. There’s something deeply comforting about wandering through rows of fresh produce, handmade goods, and vibrant blooms. I picked up a bouquet that instantly breathed new life into our home—just one of those small joys that quietly transforms your whole day.

    After that, I headed about thirty minutes inland to Gene’s Farm and Garden Center. I’ve had my eye on a classic concrete birdbath for a while, and I knew they’d have a great selection. Sure enough, Gene’s didn’t disappoint. They have what they call “the concrete garden,” an open expanse of land covered with every kind of garden statue, birdbath, and concrete décor imaginable. It was whimsical, peaceful, and exactly the kind of quirky, hidden gem I love stumbling upon.

    Later that day, we had our first overnight guests at our new home, my boyfriend’s sister and her husband made the trip down from Pennsylvania. Hosting them felt like a little milestone for us, and it was so special to share our space with family. We went out to Josie Kelly’s for dinner—there was live music, great food, and even a few familiar faces from high school floating around. For a holiday weekend, I was pleasantly surprised that we didn’t run into any chaos trying to find parking or grab a table. It felt like the town saved a spot just for us.

    Sunday morning was slow and sweet. We took a walk to a nearby park, showing off a bit of our neighborhood charm to our guests. Then we headed to the Ocean City boardwalk, a place so full of nostalgia it almost hums. We hit all the classics: the arcade, Manco’s Pizza, and Johnson’s Popcorn. You know the drill. Even with the crowds, it still feels like a rite of passage to walk that boardwalk when the season begins.

    After saying goodbye to our guests later that day, we met up with my best friend to check out one of the newer bars in Margate called Sunrise. It was Knicks vs. Pacers on the screens, and though I’m a 76ers fan (and yes, I know they didn’t make the playoffs—pain), I’m still happy to be along for the postseason ride. The bar was lively, and we lucked out with a couple of seats just as the game heated up. It felt good to be out, surrounded by energy and friends, wrapped in that feeling of summer starting to unfold.

    Monday morning was all sunshine. I took a walk to a local market, where I grabbed a coffee and stumbled upon what I’m now officially declaring the best crumb cake I’ve ever had in my life (see below). No exaggeration—it was buttery, crisp, perfectly spiced, and gone too fast.

    We spent the rest of the day on the beach—just the two of us, music playing, homemade cocktails in hand, and a few rounds of our favorite beach game, Tidal Ball. Later, we capped off the day with seafood at a nearby bar before heading home, sun-kissed and content.

    I walked away from the weekend feeling incredibly grounded. Sometimes, in the whirlwind of work and responsibility, it’s easy to forget how much we have to be grateful for. But weekends like this remind me just how much my job has given me. It’s allowed me to build the kind of life I once only dreamed about, filled with meaningful connections, moments of joy, and a place that feels like home.

    Of course, not every day is easy. But the hard days make weekends like this even sweeter. They give the joy more weight. More texture. More meaning.

    Here’s to slowing down, soaking it all in, and finding the sand between our shifts.

  • Wrap It Up

    Today was one of those days where I hit the ground running before I even had a chance to think about coffee. The morning started with a flurry of urgent emails, the kind that seem to multiply the moment you answer one. I bounced between project updates, troubleshooting minor snags, and aligning next steps with various departments. Then came a visit to the hospital, where I met with leadership to discuss upcoming changes. There was a training session on a new workflow, a few check-ins with the ORs and my team, and a steady stream of follow-ups.

    By the time I looked up, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day — not a great habit, but one I know many of us fall into when the day demands our full presence. Even though I had left the building, I hadn’t exactly “clocked out.” I was still on call and waiting for a few virtual conversations to unfold. It was one of those in-between spaces: the workday technically over, but my brain still half tethered to everything I’d just touched.

    And then came the chicken Caesar wrap.

    There’s a little spot near my house I’d been meaning to try — one of those nondescript places you pass a hundred times before curiosity finally wins. Today, with hunger leading the way and indecision trailing behind, I stopped in and ordered one of my go-to comfort choices: a chicken Caesar wrap. It’s a meal I’ve come to trust over the years. Not flashy, not complicated, but always satisfying — the culinary equivalent of a favorite hoodie.

    What I wasn’t expecting was the sheer size of it. This thing was enormous. It had heft, it had crunch, and the Caesar dressing was just garlicky and tangy enough to remind me why I always fall back on it. I devoured it. Every bite tasted like relief.

    It was exactly what I needed, and it reminded me that nourishment doesn’t have to be grand to be meaningful. Today’s lunch was a reminder that even in the busiest of days, it’s worth slowing down to appreciate the little things that hold us up.

    And now, I’ve got a new favorite lunch spot. My only regret is not taking a photo of it to share. Next time. 

  • Navigating Change as a Team

    Lately, there’s been a noticeable shift in the tide at work. Some teammates are setting off for new horizons, whether chasing fresh opportunities, realigning their priorities, or simply following where life is leading them. At the same time, new colleagues are arriving, full of potential and navigating the delicate dance of learning the ropes in a fast-paced, intricate environment.

    Transitions like this are never easy.

    Change can feel like a disruption, even when it ultimately brings improvement. It pulls us away from the comfort of what we know and asks us to reimagine our work. And let’s be honest: most of us find some sense of safety in our routines. How things have always been done offers predictability, familiarity, and a rhythm we can count on. But when those rhythms are interrupted, it’s easy to feel unsettled.

    Still, I’ve always believed that the only real constant in healthcare—and in life—is change.

    While resistance is natural, growth almost always comes from moments of discomfort. These are the seasons when we’re stretched, challenged, and invited to see things from a new angle. It’s during these periods of upheaval that we learn not just new protocols or workflows but resilience, patience, and adaptability.

    As we adjust to this new rhythm, I hope we can approach it with a shared purpose. Let’s lean into the change rather than away from it. Let’s offer grace to ourselves and each other when the days feel awkward or uncertain. And let’s remind ourselves that transformation isn’t a sign that something is broken; it’s often a sign that something is evolving.

    In time, we’ll look back and realize how much stronger, wiser, and more connected we became, not in spite of change but because of it.

  • “Sunday Scaries” and the Art of Letting Tomorrow Be Tomorrow

    It’s Sunday evening. The sun begins to dip, and with it, a subtle unease creeps in. If you’re like me, you know this feeling well — the “Sunday Scaries.” It’s that low hum of anticipatory anxiety as the weekend winds down and your mind churns with thoughts of the week ahead. Emails. Call shifts. Patient complexities. That project you haven’t finished. The unexpected. The unknown.

    Seven months ago, I started a new job that brought with it a title I was proud of, a team I was eager to serve, and a whirlwind of inner panic I wasn’t prepared for. On paper, everything looked right. But internally, I was unraveling. I cried almost every day after work. Not because the job was unusually grueling — though, like any healthcare role, it came with its weight — but because I was holding onto fear like it was my job, too.

    I second-guessed everything. I overanalyzed every interaction and every decision. I worried incessantly about what might go wrong, convinced I wouldn’t be able to handle it, and certain that when it did, it would somehow be my fault. I was overwhelmed, not by the role itself, but by the pressure I had created in my own mind. I had built a mental fortress of“what-ifs,” and I was trapped inside.

    But then, something shifted. Not all at once, but slowly, steadily.

    I began to learn the rhythm of the department. I started to identify the people I could lean on, ask questions to, and admit,“I’m not sure. Can you help me think through this?” without shame. I stopped demanding perfection of myself and instead started honoring progress. The work was still hard sometimes. Some days still are. There are long hours. Unexpected calls. Stressful situations that come with leading a team and showing up for patients. But I can do it. And more importantly — I am doing it.

    And that brings me back to Sunday evenings.

    These days, when my brain begins to wander into the world of Monday morning problems, I gently pause. I tell myself, That’s for tomorrow me to deal with. And you know what? Most of the time, Mondays are just fine. So are Tuesdays. And Wednesdays. Sometimes, they’re even wonderful. Sometimes, they’re frustrating. Sometimes, they’re exhausting. But none of them require my worry ahead of time.

    I used to steal joy from myself by trying to pre-live the week in my mind. Now, I try to stay here — in the present. I’velearned that anxiety feeds on imagined catastrophe. But peace? Peace lives in trust — in ourselves, in our process, in the truth that we don’t have to have it all figured out beforehand.

    So now, I let Sunday evenings be precisely what they are: an invitation to rest. To soften. To remember that I’ve survived every work week before this one — and I’ll do it again.

    If you’re walking through your own season of “Sunday Scaries,” know this: it doesn’t mean you’re incapable. It doesn’tmean you chose the wrong path. It means you care — maybe too much sometimes — and you’re learning. Be patient with your own unfolding. Eventually, the fog lifts, and in its place is the calm clarity that you can, in fact, handle what comes.

    And when in doubt, give it to tomorrow-you. They’re stronger than you think.

  • Good Ol’ Steak and Potatoes

    My partner and I moved into our new home just over a month ago, and I still feel like I’m exhaling for the first time in years. After moving more times than I can count on one hand, it’s humbling to finally have a place that is ours. Not just a landing pad or a temporary fix, but a home. A place to grow roots. A space to make memories, to learn how to care for something together, and to allow ourselves to just be.

    One unexpected but welcome shift that’s come with this new chapter is returning to the kitchen. During my nomadic stretch of the last few years, I used the constant upheaval as a reason not to stock a kitchen. Cooking at home didn’t make sense when I was always on the move. Why buy a whole jar of spices for one meal when I’d likely have to pack it up (or toss it) within six months? Ordering takeout was easier and simpler.

    But now, I’m slowly building a kitchen that feels like a foundation—one jar at a time. And last week, I made what might be one of the most straightforward and most satisfying home-cooked meals I’ve had in a long time: good ol’ steak and potatoes.

    Here’s what went down:

    I preheated the oven to 400°F and prepped some asparagus—washed, trimmed, tossed in olive oil, parmesan, and herbs. They roasted for ten minutes while I halved a bowl of mini potatoes, dressed them the same way, and roasted them skin-side-up for about thirty minutes until they were crispy and golden. The star of the show was a couple of marinated sirloin steaks. I gave them a quick roast in the oven for five minutes, then seared them for just a minute on each side on the stovetop. They came out at a medium temperature. (I’m working toward mastering a medium-rare next time—it’s a work in progress.)

    Dinner was delicious. Not because it was gourmet or complicated, but because it was ours. Cooked in our kitchen, eaten in our home. We’re still eating most of our meals in front of the TV—a habit I’d like to phase out once we get a dining set—but we watched The Last of Us and cozied up for the evening. All in all, it was one of those nights that reminded me why “home” is worth all the effort.

    There’s something special about cooking for yourself and your loved ones, especially when you haven’t always had the space or the bandwidth to do it. This simple dinner felt like a little celebration of stability, intention, and this new phase we’re entering.

    It turns out steak and potatoes can taste like gratitude.