Sand Between Shifts

Month: May 2025

  • 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.

  • Embracing Ordinary Moments in a Busy World

    Somewhere between shift change and shoreline, life happens quietly.

    It happens in the soft return home after a long day.

    In the way the garden grows without asking much.

    In the stretch of sand under a sky you didn’t know you needed.

    In the steady rhythm of showing up—to work, to life, to yourself.

    This space—Sand Between Shifts—is where I’ve come to share that kind of living.

    I work in healthcare, a profession that asks a lot of you. It asks for precision, presence, and strength. But beyond the hospital walls, there’s another rhythm I try to keep: quiet mornings, small projects, meals shared out, books stacked on the nightstand, coastal air, rooting into home.

    Here, I’ll write about the life that exists between it all.

    Not the highlight reel, not the burnout badge, not the pressure to be constantly productive—just the simple texture of a life that is both intense and ordinary. Some days I’ll reflect on work. Other days, I may write about the beach, a book, or something blooming in the yard. Sometimes there may be stories—about healing, exhaustion, gratitude, or even a really good crab cake.

    If you’ve found your way here, I’m glad you have.

    Welcome.