One Year As a Nurse - the Joy, the Guilt, and My Rose-Colored Glasses
July 22nd, 2025 - One whole year as a pediatric hematology/oncology RN. One year of pouring out all the love I have to offer to the fiercest kids I have ever encountered. One year of saying things like, “no ouchies,” and walking into every room with a cheerful, “Hey friend,” hearing giggles (and the occasional screams) echo up and down the halls. One year of stepping onto the unit with butterflies in my stomach, staring at my assignment for the day—yet leaving each shift feeling like I might just have the coolest job in the world… and the hardest.
A year ago, I had no idea what my work life would look like. I remember thinking, “Maybe I’m not cut out for this—but we won’t know until we try.” So I jumped. And I’m forever thankful I did.
What a Year Teaches You
It’s wild how much you learn in your first year of nursing. When you first start out, you may remember from nursing school how to spike a bag of fluids or that beta-blockers end in -lol, but you wouldn’t know the first thing about accessing a port or how to work a syringe pump. Then suddenly, a year flies by, and you realize you have developed this quiet, growing confidence. RNs from the newest cohort ask you questions… and somehow, you know the answers.
That said, I still ask so many questions—and I’ve learned that’s more than okay. If anything, it’s a reminder (and I know you’ve heard this before): nursing is one of those fields where you never stop learning.
What They Don’t Tell You
There are a few things I’ve learned about the nursing world that I never saw coming. One of those things is the unfortunate undercurrent of negativity that is present in healthcare. I have chatted with other friends of mine working on different units in different hospitals or even outpatient centers, and there’s often a sense that the grass is always greener somewhere else.
I’ve been told a few times that I still have my “rose-colored glasses” on—that I block out the hard parts: the sadness, the sleep deprivation, the chaos. But see what happens on my worst shifts is that something always happens that keeps me going–keeps me grounded in why I love this job.
A patient makes me a bracelet they’ve spent hours crafting in their room.
A coworker checks in and says, “Bella, what can I do for you so you can eat?”
A parent tells me, “I haven’t seen my kid light up like this in months,” just because I talked to them about Alabama football (roll tide!).
Do I still wear rose-colored glasses? Yeah, maybe. But I’d rather wear them and hold onto the purest, most magical moments in my patients' lives than get dragged down by the darkness that comes with almost any healthcare job.
Bringing the Magic
Speaking of magic, it runs through the halls of pediatric hospitals. One thing I have realized over the past year is that when a sick child lacks the energy or joy to light up the unit, it’s truly us–the nurses–who bring that magic. And that’s made me respect my coworkers and nurses everywhere, even more.
It may sound cliché or unrealistic, but when you channel your inner child–when you pretend that the pulse oximeter that sticks to their finger is a light saber and the port under their skin they get chemotherapy through makes them a superhero–a lot can change. Room by room. Little by little.
The Guilt I Never Expected
Around the six-month mark, things start to shift. You’re trusted with higher acuity patients. You’ve seen more, learned more. But with that trust came something I didn’t expect: guilt.
It creeps in quietly. I feel it when I barely spend time in a sweet patient’s room because I’ve been wrapped up with a more critical one. Or when a child asks me to play, but I can’t exactly say yes, because next door, someone else, more clinically unstable, needs me. That’s a stab to the heart.
I’ve also experienced guilt when I have an easier day with lower patient acuity, and I sit next to a nurse who has been M.I.A. for three hours because they’ve been running from patient to patient like a chicken with their head cut off.
Here’s how I’m learning to manage that guilt:
Use your resources. Be a resource.
If I can’t find time to play cards with a patient, I’ll call Child Life. If I can’t be their joy that day, I feel better clocking out of the shift knowing I found someone who could. And if I have space in my shift, I’ll step in for a friend—pass meds, grab vitals, message a provider for them. Be the help I wish I had when I was drowning.
Six months ago, I never knew this guilt, but a year ago, I wouldn’t have even known how to do that. That, to me, is growth.
Living the Dream
The other day, I had a conversation with my roomie, Ash, who tends to come up a lot in these blog posts because she has seen my growth as a nurse (and human) first hand as my best friend from high school.
She reminded me of something I said back in November of 2024, right when I got off orientation. I was feeling extremely doubtful of myself as a new nurse after a stressful day, and kept telling her, “Gosh, I just want to skip ahead—to my one-year mark—when I know what I’m doing.”
I wanted to bypass all the anxious spirals. Skip past the fear, the learning curves, the growing pains… and just be confident. That’s when it hit me that I’m living in the very season I once wished I could fast-forward to.
It’s always surreal when someone comments on one of my posts, saying it’s their dream to be a peds hem/onc nurse, often even at the hospital where I work. It’s difficult not to let a hard day at work make you question how long you’ll be able to care for this heavy population. But it’s easy to take a second and step back to realize that I am living someone else’s dream, if not my dream, from not so long ago.
So, for my one-year update: I’m still learning, definitely growing, definitely still getting butterflies before tough shifts. But I am also showing up to work with more confidence, a heart that’s grown a few sizes bigger for these kids, and more awe for my work family than ever before.
This year has been full of tiny hands to hold, big feelings, heartbreaking goodbyes, and quiet victories–through it all, I’ve never been more certain that I am still exactly where I am supposed to be.
If you’re a new nurse, in nursing school, or just doubting yourself like I once did and sometimes still do, hang in there. You are constantly growing more than you realize, and the joy will find you if you just open your eyes to it. And the magic? You’ll learn to create it in the smallest, yet most meaningful ways.