Graduation sits only a few months away, but it feels both near and unreachable. Every day blends into the next—lectures, clinical rotations, exam prep, and endless coffee. The whiteboards in our dorm room are covered with drug names, dosage equations, and acronyms that blur when I blink too long. I’ve started carrying flashcards in my pockets, whispering symptoms and side effects under my breath like quiet prayers.

The nursing board exam looms over everything. It’s the mountain we’ve been climbing toward since the first day we learned to wash our hands in the right order. Mrs. Ramirez calls it “the gate,” the moment when knowledge meets pressure. She says confidence is as important as memorization, but it’s hard to feel confident when every practice test feels like a storm you can’t quite outrun.

At the hospital, the days move fast. I rotate between wards now, filling in where needed. One morning, I help in the emergency unit. A boy with a broken arm cries while his mother holds his hand. I distract him by letting him listen to his heartbeat through my stethoscope. His tears slow, curiosity winning over pain. “That’s me?” he asks. I nod, smiling. “That’s you.” Later, I realize it’s the first time all week I’ve smiled without forcing it.

Evenings are spent in the library. Maya sits across from me, muttering pharmacology facts while eating dry cereal from the box. Jonah has a stopwatch, timing how long we take to recall lab values. “You’re two seconds too slow,” he says, grinning. “Try again.” We laugh, but beneath it we all feel the same pressure. Sleep becomes optional, replaced by caffeine and flashcards stacked like towers of fear and hope.

One night, after another long study session, I step outside. The air is cool and full of the smell of rain-soaked pavement. I sit on the bench outside the dorm, staring up at the stars half-hidden behind clouds. My fingers twitch from writing, my brain buzzing. I wonder what will happen if I fail. What if I’m not meant to do this? The thought comes uninvited, sharp and cruel. Then I remember Tyler, his small hand gripping mine as he breathed through the mask. I remember Mrs. O’Leary whispering thanks, and Daniel Ruiz watching the world fade with peace in his eyes. Those moments live inside me like quiet anchors. I whisper to myself, You’ve already done the work. Now you just have to prove it.

The next week, we attend a prep seminar. Miss Gordon stands at the front of the classroom, her posture steady as ever. “The test is one day,” she says. “But the nurse you’ve become—she’s already here. Don’t forget that when you sit in that room.” Her words land in my chest like a heartbeat. I look around at my classmates—tired, pale, determined—and realize we’re all holding on to the same fragile faith.

In the final week before the exam, the pressure breaks for a moment. Maya bursts into tears over a dosage question. Jonah drops his flashcards on the floor and just laughs, exhausted. I make instant coffee for all of us, and we sit in silence, watching the rain outside. “We’re almost there,” I whisper. “We just have to hold on.” Maya wipes her eyes and says, “I’ll hold on if you do.” So we do.

On the morning of the exam, the sky is clear for the first time in weeks. I wake before dawn, put on the same pair of scrubs I wore during my first clinical shift, and braid my hair tight. My reflection looks calm, though I can feel the thunder in my chest. At the testing center, rows of students sit behind screens. I take my seat. The cursor blinks on the first question like a challenge.

The room is silent except for the sound of typing. My pulse pounds, but the knowledge comes back in pieces—the sound of a monitor, the smell of antiseptic, the feel of a steady pulse under my fingers. Every question becomes a memory of a patient, a name, a heartbeat. Time slips away. When it’s over, I walk outside, blinking in the sunlight, feeling both emptied and alive.

That night, I open my journal.
I think the hardest part wasn’t learning the answers. It was believing I belonged here. Maybe nursing isn’t about knowing everything. Maybe it’s about standing in chaos and choosing to care anyway.

The next day, Maya, Jonah, and I meet at our favorite café. We don’t talk about results. We just sit, drink coffee, and let the silence feel easy for once. Outside, the wind moves the cherry blossoms through the air like slow snow. For the first time in months, I breathe without counting.

Somewhere deep inside, I already know—I made it.