Sand Between Shifts

Tag: anxiety

  • 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.

  • “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.