🌱 The Perfect Job Wasn’t What I Thought
By Eileen Colette
I used to believe that being a nurse was the closest thing to God’s work.
It felt like a calling—higher, holier, more sacrificial than any other service job. Nursing required knowledge, intuition, empathy, stamina, and grace. Sometimes, it felt like we were the ones ushering people into heaven. There was beauty in the sacrifice, dignity in the mess, and meaning in the monotony. Or so I thought.
But somewhere along the way, that noble calling started to feel more like a burden I didn’t sign up for. The patient load we carried wasn’t chosen—it was assigned, like names on a roster written by fate or hospital policy. And if we did have a say, it wasn’t based on connection or compassion. It was based on diagnosis, acuity, and how likely they were to be discharged soon.
Think of it like gardening.
Every gardener has their preferences. Some plants are easier to manage. A wilting dandelion just needs water, nutrients, and rest—it perks up quickly. But then there are plants that require constant monitoring—ones with pouches, drips, or infestations. The ones that can’t release waste on their own, the ones covered in bugs, the ones that keep escaping their pots.
Those aren’t bad plants. They’re just… more work.
And on any given day, most of us aren’t thrilled when the garden roster assigns us the toughest patch.
I started to wonder if the reason we burn out so easily is because we view nursing as a lifelong calling rather than a mission with boundaries. A mission has a beginning and an end. A mission allows for strategy, for reinforcements, for debriefing. But a calling? That feels eternal. And exhausting.
I remember one assignment in particular. It was a small garden patch of a unit—on paper. But in reality, it was a tangled jungle of demands. One plant needed hand-watering and support five times in one shift. Another, oozing with something foul (which I later discovered was C. diff), had no one to help keep the soil clean. A third kept creeping out of its quarantine zone despite being covered in visible pests.
By the end of the shift, I had barely touched the routine care list. When the head gardener asked why, I explained the chaos: the washing, the pests, the cross-contamination risks, the soil adjustments, the constant titration of treatments. She blinked and said, “You should’ve told me your assignment was heavy. I can change it for tonight.”
As if it were my responsibility to sound the alarm after the vines had wrapped around my ankles.
Here’s the truth I’ve come to learn: if nurses saw themselves not as martyrs, but as gardeners, we’d be healthier.
Gardeners don’t resent the weeds—they manage them. They stake up the drooping stems, feed the soil, prune the dead growth, adjust the sunlight. They replace what’s missing. They step back and observe. And when needed, they call in reinforcements.
A gardener doesn’t confuse themselves with the Reaper.
We are not death’s companion in the garden. We are the tenders of life—the ones who make things bloom in hard places.
The perfect job isn’t about suffering more than everyone else. It’s about knowing your purpose, using your gifts, and setting boundaries that help you thrive while helping others grow.
And if you ask me now, that is God’s work.
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