There are moments in life where you don’t feel ready—but somehow, you’re called to show up anyway.
When I was assigned to a closed psychiatric Geronto (geriatric) ward during my nursing Ausbildung (Nursing Training), I said no few times. Not because I lacked interest or empathy, but because I had been on the other side of that door before—as someone struggling with depression, with identity, with life…
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And the fear of reliving that pain felt overwhelming.
But I went. And what I found inside was not just challenge and exhaustion—but healing, understanding, and a renewed sense of purpose.
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Walking Into My Past: It could have been me.
When I first stepped onto the locked unit, my heart pounded. I started sweating. My friend and classmate noticed how my facial expression has changed and how blood was clearly drained from my face that even if you slice my lips open, I don’t think blood will flow.
The sounds, the blank stares, the pacing, the sudden outbursts—it all brought memories flooding back.
The difference was, this time, I was wearing scrubs.
I wasn’t the patient—I was the caregiver.
And that role came with a weight I hadn’t expected.
I had to protect myself, yet stay open.
Set boundaries, yet remain compassionate.
Listen deeply, even when words made no sense.
It was like being on the edge of a mirror—constantly reminded of who I once was, and who I am becoming.
The Power of Presence in Mental Health Care
One thing I learned quickly: these patients didn’t need fixing —they needed to feel seen. Understood.
So many were elderly, lost in dementia, psychosis or trauma, but every so often, clarity would shine through.
And I realized something: even when the mind forgets, the soul remembers kindness.
A warm touch. A calm voice. A smile that doesn’t flinch in the face of fear.
I stopped focusing on what was clinically “correct” and started leaning into empathy.
I began asking myself:
How would I have wanted someone to care for me when I was most vulnerable?
That question became my compass.
Patience as a Spiritual Practice
There were hard days.
Days when a patient would scream for hours, would spit, hit or bite if you come near them.
Days when I had to clean messes, de-escalate aggression, and witness heartbreaking confusion.
Days when I came home drained and in tears.
But those days also became my teachers.
They taught me that patience isn’t passive—it’s a sacred offering.
A decision to be present with discomfort and still choose love.
Spiritually, it was a practice of surrender.
Of letting go of control, ego, and expectation.
Of holding space not just for patients—but for my own feelings too.
What the Patients Taught Me
You’d think the learning only flows one way in healthcare—but it doesn’t.
The patients, in their fragmented words and repetitive movements, taught me more about humanity than any textbook ever could.
One man would sing church hymns every morning despite his diagnosis. He reminded me of faith.
Another woman would hold my hand silently for minutes. She reminded me that presence speaks louder than words.
One confused patient called me “Mama” and hugged me like a child after feeding her. She reminded me of how love can bypass all logic.
They were not just patients. They were mirrors.
Each one showing me a hidden part of myself I had yet to heal or acknowledge. It could have been me had I not sat with myself and looked at every aspect of my life and did things to radically heal it and create a life where I am filled with everything that I love.
Surprisingly, the very experience I feared the most became the one that gave me back my power.
I didn’t spiral.
I didn’t break down.
I stood in the fire—and something in me transformed.
I realized that healing isn’t always loud or sudden.
Sometimes it’s quiet. It happens when you show up for others in the very place you once felt broken.
I began sleeping better.
Journaling more. Creating more.
Feeling a deeper connection to myself and to something greater. I have no qualms in saying how proud I am of myself because I tried. I knew I could always turn around and walk the other way but I’d be forever haunted by the fact that I didn’t try or even gave myself the permission to try.
Lessons I’ll Carry Forever
Here are the life lessons I learned this month:
1. Empathy is the foundation of care.
More than skills, what people need is to feel they matter.
2. Boundaries are essential.
I learned to say no when I needed rest, to step away before burnout. That’s self-respect, not selfishness.
3. Spirituality is part of healing.
Whether it’s prayer, mindfulness, or simply being still—having something bigger to anchor into makes a difference.
4. Growth happens in discomfort.
The hardest experiences often bring the deepest transformation.
5. Mental health is a shared human journey.
It’s not us versus. them. We all carry battles. The key is to hold space for one another.
6. Love myself harder especially during those times I feel overwhelmed and overstimulated.
What began as a dreaded assignment became a sacred journey.
In that closed ward, I reconnected with my own resilience.
I saw humanity in its most raw and vulnerable form—and I honored it.
I left that station not just as a better future nurse—but as a more grounded, compassionate human.
To anyone walking through the shadows right now:
You are not alone.
You are not broken.
And sometimes, your hardest moments will become the light you give to others.
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