Many interesting things have happened recently and they all have demanded the same question of me: Who am I?
I’ll list off the things and explain why each has impacted me so greatly.
1. I was offered my dream job…kind of
2. I put on some weight
3. I started running
4. I threw my back out
So starting with item one: I was offered my dream job, kind of. Many of you know I’ve been less than enthusiastic at my current job. From the moment I got the offer I was disappointed ashamed. I felt that I had earned a higher level of critical care. I complained about my job constantly, sizing myself up to my fellow nurses in a higher acuity of care. I dreaded going to work, feeling my frustration bubble up during every shift.
It’s been almost a year since I started my current job, and I’ve been challenged every shift to ask myself “what kind of nurse am I?” The truth is that it wavers. Some days I come in guns a’blazing. Ready to be the best I can be to my patients. Recognizing the innate divinity in each life I touch. Some days I come in with my focus on the nurse who will follow, making sure not to leave things undone. Or even more frequently, I come in hoping to be a helpful coworker, making myself useful to the nurse with the tough assignment. Of course, then there are the days that I come in because I have to, and I count down each hour before my shift ends. Each of these mind-sets serve a purpose and they all have consequences. I always feel like I am sacrificing my patient’s well-being, my camaraderie, or my values. Manic and overwhelmed, I leave each shift feeling regret of some kind. I wasn’t enough. It’s a horrifying way to feel.
When I was in nursing school, I felt powerful. I felt like an agent of change. I felt like I balanced compassion and competence, the two traits most demanded of healthcare workers. Since I’ve hit the workforce, I’ve lost that fire and I’ve struggled with “who am I as a nurse?” Most often, I resorted to blaming the unit I work on, a unit that sees far more patients who will never recover than success stories. I’ve lived moral fatigue. In the same breath, I’ve been completely overwhelmed by the respect and companionship I have with my fellow nurses, nurse aides, and respiratory therapists. It’s a confusing flux. But I’ve been damned and determined to leave. So when the opportunity arose for me to interview for my “dream unit,” I jumped. Finally, after 3 interviews and a year of waiting, I was told they wanted me…if only they had a job to give out. They told me to wait, that the jobs would come available soon enough, and that they understood if I found a better opportunity in the meantime.
Bolstered by this success, I went back to work a little stronger on my feet. I was an ICU nurse after all, because an ICU told me so. I was smart and driven. I had affirmation. But then a new emotion took over…fear. I had some less-than-positive experiences with some of the staff from the dream unit. Arrogance and unfriendliness. I started wondering, “who am I, as a nurse?” Was I someone who would sacrifice incredible teamwork and support for higher acuity? Am I a nurse who would pass up the dream job due to fear and uncertainty? I still don’t know the answer to that. Luckily, since the job has still not opened up, I don’t have to know right now. I want to progress as a professional, but will I have the family that I have in my current unit? Who am I? I am a nurse with options and a new respect for the work I do on my current unit.
On to item two: I put on some weight. This is a really touchy topic for me. It’s like my body started craving immense amounts of sleep and sugar all at once. Unhappy and unfulfilled with my job, I ran to predictable comforts. I began hiding from my life and like a bear in winter, hibernated to avoid my life. I always think of this quote from Ellen Degeneres’ stand up Here and Now. Fast forward to 28 minutes in for that gem. Anyways, after my triumphant 30 pound weight loss last year, the scale started creeping up again. It really hit me when I couldn’t fit into a pair of my scrubs. SCRUBS, the most forgiving clothes on the planet. The shame spiral that descended upon me has been unreal. I became obsessed with my image and the number on the scale as opposed to my health, and the indisputable mental un-wellness that allowed for the weight gain to begin with. Diets, exercise, extremes all coursed through my mind. All thoughts and no action. Paralyzed by my feeling of unworthiness, I binged on and hid away. I began to question again “who am I?” The answer was clear, again and again: I am the fat girl.
This, again, has less to do with my actual weight and more to do with the messages I sent myself regarding it. I spiraled in and out of guilt about 1) being fat and 2) judging myself for being fat. Judgement begets judgement. Fear begets fear. And weight shaming, for me, begets weight gain. I knew I needed to make a change, but I couldn’t decided if that changed needed to be acceptance OR action. My therapist would punch me in the face if she knew that dichotomy was in my head. Years of work have build the practice of AND. There can be two truths, and the dialectics are far more friendly to wise choices than black OR white, yes OR no, good OR bad. They are both truths. I wanted (not needed but wanted) to get my health under control AND wanted to gain back my self-acceptance. No decision I’ve ever made has stuck from self-shaming and self-hatred. All of my successes were yielded from good, honest, self-worth and hard work. Who am I? I am the person of the AND. I am someone who can hold two truths at ones and guide myself to the right path for me.
This brings us to item three: I started running. To be fair, all credit is due to my sister here. She decided after the birth of her second child that in 2015, she would run a half marathon. I have never, for one second, doubted my sister when she’s put her mind to something. Of the three of us siblings, my sister is by far the hardest working and most dedicated. She asked me to train with her, and out of more humoring and support than genuine interest in a half-marathon did I start running with her.
It was so scary to step on that treadmill the first day. Self-conscious and out of shape, I resigned myself to at least making my sister feel good when she saw how much stronger she was than me. I thought “at least I can remind her what she wants NOT to be.” Then, I put one foot in front of the other. I noticed something really amazing while working out with Steph: she perceived the world in a completely different way than I did. Comments from other people towards us that I assumed were in sarcasm and criticism, Stephanie saw as camaraderie and support. I came into the gym feeling like an impostor, Steph came in feeling like she belonged. This simple difference in world view made Stephanie courageous, inspiring, and exceptionally well-performing. I, once again, was blown away by how much I look up to my big sister. As was inevitably struck with the same question, “who am I, compared to my sister?” The answer that filled in that blank haunted me. I am the ugly sister. Stephanie is the beautiful blonde haired, blue eyed, popular, put-together sister. I am her socially awkward, bookworm, homely little sister. As I type these things, I can easily recognize that they are untrue. We are different people, with different strengths, different bodies, and different faces. I read this amazing article today about body shaming, and the most significant quote to me was:
The older we get, the more loved ones we lose to accidents and illness. Their passing is always tragic and far too soon. I sometimes think about what these friends — and the people who love them — wouldn’t give for more time in a body that was healthy. A body that would allow them to live just a little longer. The size of that body’s thighs or the lines on its face wouldn’t matter. It would be alive and therefore it would be perfect.
I cried and cried when I read that. I was struck by truth and honesty. A working body is a blessing. It is ours, and ours alone. It is the vessel that allows us to love and interact with our world. Who am I? I am a person of sinew and bone. Powerful and capable.
Then, item four: I threw out my fucking back. Last week, at the gym, on a day I really didn’t want to go, I began running. And I ran. And I did core work. And then I jumped up onto a box and felt a lightening bolt of despair seize my entire lower back. I’ve been down this road before. I’ve had this anguish. I’ve felt this shame. I have feared these fears. Who am I? I am the only fucking 20-something who’s body is so broken that she can’t jump on a box without pulling out her back. In post-apocalpytic America, I would fail, because I can’t trust my body to support me.
The emotional turmoil that set in when my back went read as a long self-shaming monologue full of all the things I couldn’t do anymore. I started equating a temporary, physical set-back with the inevitable failure of all of my efforts. I’m reminded of this hilarious quote from Parks and Recreation:
I can’t kill the possum, ’cause it might be innocent. I can’t let the possum go, because it might be guilty. Can’t make a good soup, can’t do a handstand in a pool. Can’t spell the word lieutenant. There are a lot of cant’s in my life right now.
I so empathize with this thought process. One set-back can trigger me back into a world of can’t. Who am I? I am the person who can’t. Feeling sorry for myself, and hoping to preclude invitations, questions, and judgment, I posted a whiny Facebook post about hurting my back. I figured, better to put it out there before I have to explain to every person I come into contact with why I’m walking like a weirdo and can’t do fun things.
But then something awesome happened: People supported me, encouraged me, reached out to see what they could do. My physical therapist from a year ago reached out to offer guidance and help. I’ve had to remind myself not to “push through” the pain or judge myself for being a human being with flaws and weaknesses, but at least I had a new answer to my question. Who am I? I am the person with amazing friends and an incredible support system.
Life is never settled. The hand is never dealt. We are on a journey with bumps and surprises. Victories and moments of mourning. I may not be where I want to be in my career, romantic life, physical health, or adventuring, but I am constantly offered new opportunities and experiences. I am forever supported by family and friendship. I may lose 40 pound or gain 40 pounds. I may work in an ICU or an outpatient clinic. I might move to Japan or spent the rest of my days in Charlotte. I may do all or none of these things. I do know, that my life has very few “can’ts” that are not self-imposed.
Who am I? Ehyeh asher ehyeh. I am what I am. I will be what I will be.
It is a self-determined course.
And You Shall Love 