Why I Write What I Write

—because meaning lives in the moments no one explains—

“Isn’t working as a nurse enough? Why would you start a blog about nursing too?” 

That question lingered longer than I expected.
I never thought people wondered why I write —
or why I return to certain moments again and again:
the quiet hours, the small details,
the things people forget… unless someone captures them.

Those are the spaces I move toward.
And they are the reason I write.
  

I Write for the Moments No One Sees 

Most of my career has unfolded at night.
After the chaos settles.
After the noise fades.
When every distraction has been used up,
and the only thing left is what is really happening.

That is when the small behaviors appear —
the pacing, the repeated questions,
the worry that tries to hide inside polite tone.
Family members begin to ask for things
not because they need them…
but because they need us.

I began to notice the pattern:
they watched me closely when I entered the room.
If I didn’t look panicked, their shoulders softened.
They weren’t being “difficult.”
They were trying to survive uncertainty —
hoping that someone would read their fear
before it had to be spoken aloud.

Those invisible tensions,
those unspoken signals,
those human details left in the silence —
are the reason I write.

   I Write to Make the Unseen Understandable

When I find a moment that goes unnoticed,
I study it the way someone studies a photograph.
I tilt it toward the light.
I look at it from the corner of my eye.
I ask: What is this moment trying to say?
Because sometimes the truth is not loud.
Sometimes it only appears when someone pauses long enough to see it.

There are people who feel things deeply
but don’t know the language to say it.
There are families who are labeled “difficult”
when really —
they are simply overwhelmed… and afraid.

So I translate.
I take the shadow of a moment
and give it shape.
I choose words that let it breathe.
I write so that the unseen
can be understood.

And that quiet work —
is the reason I write.

I Write To Discover Who I’m Becoming

 Every shift leaves a mark, though not always one you can see.
Some lessons arrive like a shock — 
loud, unmistakable.
Others arrive quietly, almost politely —
as if asking permission to change you.

Over time, I learned that medicine not only treats the body —
it slowly shapes the person who stands beside it.
That is how I noticed the subtle changes in myself:
the way I walk into a room,
how I listen,
how silence feels less like emptiness
And more like a space that needs translation.

In those moments I realize —
the work is molding me 
Just as much as I mold it.
I am not only recording what happens.
I am watching who I become when it does.

I write to understand that
 transformation.
I write because the shadow of a
 moment sometimes reveals more
than the full light ever could.

And that search —
that quiet pursuit of who I am becoming —
is the reason I write.