I walk through the glass doors of Ridgefield Nursing High School. The air smells sharp, like disinfectant and pencil shavings. My shoes squeak on the clean floor. The hallways shine under the white lights. I hold my notebook tight to my chest. My name, Emily Carter, is written in neat blue ink. I whisper inside my head, I will be a nurse. The words feel fragile, but true.

At the front office, a woman hands me a map and smiles. The building looks small from the outside but wide inside. There is a skills lab filled with hospital beds, shelves of gloves and gauze, and posters about blood drives. I breathe in again. The smell is strong but steady. It makes me feel awake. Clean means ready.

In Classroom A, sunlight hits the floor. Desks form a circle. A girl with a pink headband waves at me. “I’m Maya,” she says. Her voice is bright and warm. She tells me she wants to be a pediatric nurse. She talks fast, about flashcards, ramen, and how she faints at the sight of blood but will get over it. I laugh and like her already. On my other side sits Jonah, tall and quiet. He says he helped care for his grandmother after dialysis. His voice is calm. He says nursing feels like something that never stopped for him. I nod. His words stay in my chest.

Our instructor enters. Mrs. Ramirez writes her name on the board. Her hands look steady, the kind that could hold pain without shaking. She tells us this path will ask for patience, focus, and heart. “You will learn to think with your hands,” she says. “To listen with your eyes. To care when it’s hard.” Her words make the room softer, like a small flame that lights the way.

We start with hand washing. Wet. Soap. Palm to palm. Between fingers. Backs of hands. Nails. Rinse. Dry. Turn off the faucet with a towel. The rhythm feels like music. My skin smells clean and new. In the skills lab, we practice taking pulse on the mannequins. Maya counts under her breath. Jonah notes the time. My fingers find a beat under the rubber skin—steady and real. I whisper “sixty-eight” and write it down. My hand trembles, but my heart steadies. This is what I came for.

At lunch, we sit outside on the back steps. The Oregon sky is wide and blue. Maya shares granola bars. Jonah tells us how a nurse once warmed his grandma’s blanket. “It wasn’t big,” he says, “but it made everything better.” Maya nods. She talks about a nurse who blew bubbles for her cousin in pediatrics. I listen and feel something spark. “I don’t have a story like that,” I say, “but I want one.” They smile. Wanting is a start.

In the afternoon, we tour St. Helena Medical Center. The halls shine like mirrors. The elevator hums softly. On the second floor, a nurse in navy scrubs passes by with charts stacked high. Her steps are quick, certain. I wonder if I’ll ever move like that. Mrs. Ramirez asks us to stop and listen. Beeps, footsteps, whispered voices, the low hum of machines. “This,” she says, “is the language of care.” I close my eyes and listen. The sound feels alive. I want to learn every word of it.

Back at school, she gives us our first assignment—a reflection journal. “Write what you see, what you feel, and what you learn.” I like that feelings count. That night, I open my notebook. I write about the hospital smell, the pulse under my fingers, the blanket I didn’t fix. Wanting to help feels like a compass, even if I don’t know where it leads yet.

When I finish, I look in the mirror and whisper, “Hello, my name is Emily. I am your student nurse.” My reflection looks unsure, but I hold the gaze. Outside, the night hums softly. Tomorrow I’ll learn something new. Tomorrow I’ll try again. Maybe that’s what nursing is—trying again, keeping the room breathing.