The semester begins to feel heavier after a few more weeks of rotations. My planner fills with notes, clinical reports, and sticky reminders that blur together like ink stains. Every day starts with coffee before sunrise and ends with exhaustion that clings to my bones. I used to write in my journal every night, but now the pages stay empty, waiting for a version of me that isn’t always too tired to think.

Our class has started advanced clinical training. The work feels real now—vital signs, wound dressing, injections. There’s less hand-holding, more pressure. The first time I draw blood, my hands tremble. The needle wobbles, the patient flinches, and I feel the color drain from my face. The supervising nurse, Miss Gordon, steps in smoothly and finishes the task. She doesn’t scold me, but her quiet “steady hands, Carter” echoes in my mind for hours afterward.

That night, Maya and I sit outside the dorm, legs stretched on the cold concrete. The stars above Ridgefield look too far away to be real. She sighs and says, “I dropped a tray of syringes today.” We laugh, but it’s a tired kind of laugh, one that doesn’t erase the day’s weight. “Do you ever feel like you’ll never get good at this?” she asks. I nod. “All the time.” We fall silent, listening to the faint sound of cars in the distance, the low hum of streetlights. It’s comforting, that shared uncertainty.

The next morning, we have an assessment. Mrs. Ramirez watches as we practice IV insertions on mannequins. I miss the vein twice, my hands slick with nervous sweat. She leans close and says quietly, “You’re too tense. You’re thinking about failure, not the patient.” I nod, but my throat is tight. After class, I go to the restroom, lock the stall, and let the tears fall silently. It’s not just about the needle—it’s about the fear that maybe I’m not strong enough for this.

Later that week, during my shift at the community clinic, everything goes wrong. We’re short-staffed, a patient faints in the waiting area, and someone calls for help. I freeze for half a second too long. Jonah moves first, kneeling to support the man’s head. Miss Gordon barks orders—“Check pulse, get water, call Ramirez!”—and my body finally obeys. I grab the cuff, count the beats, call out the number, my voice shaking. The patient opens his eyes after a minute, breathing unevenly. The nurse nods, calm as always. The crisis passes, but the shame stays. I keep replaying that moment when I froze, when fear won.

That evening, I skip dinner and sit alone by the bus stop. The air smells like wet pavement and exhaust. I pull my jacket around me and watch cars slide past, their headlights streaking across puddles. For the first time since I started this program, I wonder if I should quit. The thought hits harder than I expect. I think about the long nights, the trembling hands, the endless pressure. Then I think about Mrs. O’Leary’s soft “thank you” and the sound of that man’s heartbeat under my stethoscope. I can’t let go of those moments. They’re small, but they feel like anchors.

Maya finds me there, holding two cups of hot cocoa. She sits beside me without a word and hands me one. The warmth seeps through the paper cup into my hands. “I almost cried during vitals check today,” she admits. “The nurse told me I was holding the thermometer wrong. Twice.” I laugh weakly. “We’re disasters,” I say. She shrugs. “Yeah, but we’re learning ones.”

When I get home, I shower until the steam fogs the mirror. My reflection looks older, tired, but somehow steadier. I take out my notebook again. The page feels heavy beneath my pen, but I start to write anyway:
Today I froze. But I moved after. Maybe courage isn’t the absence of fear. Maybe it’s the tiny step that happens right after it.

The words come slowly, unevenly, but they calm me. I close the notebook and rest my head against the cool wall. Outside, the rain starts again, soft and steady, washing the world clean.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being scared. But maybe I can learn to move anyway. Maybe that’s what every nurse learns first—the breaking point isn’t the end. It’s just where you start building again.