The rain doesn’t stop for days. It drums softly against the dorm windows, a steady rhythm that fills every quiet space. By now, I’ve learned to wake before the alarm. My mornings begin with the same ritual—coffee, uniform, tying my hair back until not a single strand escapes. The mirror reflects someone who looks a little different from the girl who first walked into Ridgefield Nursing High School. My hands still tremble sometimes, but not as much. They’ve learned things my mind hasn’t caught up with yet.

We’re assigned to pediatrics this week at St. Helena. The walls there are brighter—painted with balloons, stars, and cartoon animals that smile no matter what. The first day feels almost cheerful until I notice how small the beds are. There’s a quiet kind of bravery in this ward, one that doesn’t shout. Kids cry, laugh, and sleep through their battles. Nurses move between them like steady guardians, speaking gently, holding tiny hands that clutch at theirs for comfort.

Miss Gordon introduces me to my patient, a little boy named Tyler. He’s seven, with thin arms and a hospital bracelet that looks too big on him. He has asthma and has been here for three weeks. “You’ll help monitor his oxygen levels,” she says. Tyler greets me with a shy smile and a question I’m not ready for: “Do you ever get scared?”

His honesty catches me off guard. “Sometimes,” I say. “But I try to be brave anyway.”
He nods. “That’s what my mom says.” He points toward the window where she’s asleep in a chair, her coat draped around her shoulders. I smile and adjust his nasal cannula, making sure the tubing doesn’t pinch. His pulse oximeter beeps softly, a tiny reassurance that he’s okay.

Later that afternoon, Maya and Jonah visit the same floor. Maya helps a nurse teach a little girl how to use an inhaler. Jonah folds blankets and hums quietly while restocking supplies. The whole ward feels gentler than anywhere else we’ve been, but the emotional weight is different—heavier in the heart. Kids shouldn’t have to fight to breathe, yet here they do it with smiles and cartoon stickers on their arms.

That evening, as we make our final rounds, Tyler struggles to catch his breath. His chest rises fast, and his small hands grip the blanket. I call Miss Gordon immediately. She moves fast, adjusting his mask, speaking calmly. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re safe.” I stand beside her, helping hold the oxygen line steady. Tyler’s mother wakes, panic in her eyes, and I reach for her hand without thinking. “He’s okay,” I whisper. “He’s in good hands.”

Minutes stretch into hours, but slowly, his breathing evens out. The monitors calm. The crisis fades like a wave pulling back to sea. Miss Gordon nods to me. “Good job keeping your head,” she says quietly. I hadn’t realized until then that I wasn’t shaking. My hands are still, firm, focused.

Afterward, I sit by Tyler’s bed as he sleeps. His mom wipes her eyes and thanks me. “You must be tired,” she says. “I’m okay,” I tell her, though I feel something heavy but full inside my chest—like pride and relief twisted together. I look down at my hands resting on my knees. They don’t look like much, but tonight, they mattered.

Back at the dorm, Maya greets me with a sleepy grin. “Heard you helped with a code yellow,” she says. “You’re basically a hero.” I laugh. “I just held things in place.” Jonah looks up from his notes. “That’s what nurses do,” he says. “They hold things together.”

Later, when everyone’s asleep, I open my journal again. The pen feels lighter in my hand.
Today, I realized something. Healing isn’t only what we do to others. Sometimes it happens to us too, in the quiet moments when we stay calm, when we don’t walk away. My hands didn’t shake. Maybe that means I’m learning.

Outside, the rain finally stops. The world feels washed clean, the air cool and new. I rest my hands on the windowsill, palms open, as if the wind could teach them something more. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails softly and fades away.

I whisper to myself, “I can do this.” Not as a wish this time, but as a truth I finally believe.