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.