Why I Quit Full Time Nursing—And What I Learned From It

A year ago today I worked my last shift as a full time registered nurse in Waco. I resigned so I could move to Cambodia for a few months to teach English and work with a church, which was one of the best decisions I could have made.

When I returned to the States, I decided not to go back to full time nursing, which was also one of the best decisions I’ve made but one that surprised quite a few people around me. Currently, I’m PRN (as needed), and I love it. Here’s what I’ve learned since quitting full time nursing.

                                                          PRN

It seems crazy.

It seems crazy to quit a full time nursing job for a variety of reasons: my education is specialized and specific to nursing, nurses make a fair amount of money, and the schedule is, for the most part, convenient and flexible. Plus, nursing school was a lot of work.

At times I feel pressure from others and society in general to work full time. But if I’m being honest, most often the pressure I feel comes from within. “I’m young, healthy and able to work,” I tell myself. “I’m lazy for not working at the hospital more.” When I think these things, I have to walk myself through the steps I took to decide not to work full time. Step one is remembering:

Nursing drains me.

After a long shift a couple weeks ago, I came home and told my roommate that nursing drains me not just physically but also emotionally and even spiritually. Part of this is due to the nature of nursing—the emotional and spiritual components to caring for people—but part is also due to the way nursing plays to some of my greatest weaknesses.

For example, when I’m at work, I’m the point of contact for my patients’ care, and my patients are constantly changing. Being the point person for anything (or anyone) isn’t my natural bent, and neither is investing in short-term relationships with patients. Though these things are easily overcome with a little extra energy and effort, all the “little extra’s” start to add up.

However, since I quit working full time, I’m getting to live out my dream jobs, and that fills me up.

A couple months ago when a coworker asked what my dream job would be, I was excited and surprised to tell her, “I’m living them out now: working with at-risk students and writing." I paused before adding, "Nursing wasn’t ever part of my dream, but it finances what I really want to do.”

I regularly spend time writing and volunteering with students each week, and though they don't pay the bills, these activities are more than rewarding. They help fill me back up, and when I show up at the hospital I have a surplus, not a deficit.

This makes me a better nurse and a better coworker.

When I started back at the hospital after returning from Cambodia, I found the time away had allowed me to recover from burnout. I was less cynical, more compassionate, and could maintain my sense of humor even on poopy days (literal and figurative). I had the energy to help coworkers if they need a hand, which I’m extra glad I could do because I work with some of the best nurses out there! Though I still have rough days at work, I’ve found having a few extra days in between shifts keeps the burnout at bay. When I’m not burned out, I’m closer to being the nurse I want to be, the coworker I want to be, and the person I want to be.

Overall, I’m less stressed working PRN.

I’m less stressed when I’m at work. I like that it’s my choice to sign up for a shift instead of having to show up a certain number of times a week and work certain weekends. It helps me not dread going to work and not blame the workplace if I have a bad day—because I chose to go in that day. Nobody forced me.

I’m also less anxious when I’m not at work. Fewer shifts and more time to do what I love means less stress. I’m learning a season with a slower pace of life is perhaps the healthiest thing for me right now—physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

Because of what I've experienced, I'm redefining success.

I've struggled with guilt over not having a full-time job, and I've questioned my work ethic and my sanity. I've had to decide what success would be to me. Success could be the numbers in my bank account, the letters after my name, the hours on my time card, and the reputation as a hard-working employee. Or it could be who I am and how I am.

It's worth it.

In the eyes of a money-chasing, corporate-ladder-climbing society, my lifestyle makes no sense. But to me? My lifestyle is wildly successful. Life probably won’t always allow me work PRN, but for now, I’m so grateful for the chance to live my dreams.

To me, quitting full time nursing is worth it. It’s worth it to get to follow my passions and serve students. It's worth it to allow myself time and space to reevaluate what career fits my talents and gifts. It’s worth it to be a better nurse and a better coworker. It’s worth it because I’m convinced my choice to quit full time nursing is helping me become the person I was made to be.

Entitlement and Gifts

It snuck up on me slowly, like a ninja or a stealth aircraft, or a ninja on a stealth aircraft. It ambushed me successfully as I sat down for lunch yesterday at work. The day was busy and stressful, and it was nearly three o'clock when I finally found myself in the break room placing my tupperware in the microwave. When the microwave beeped, I grabbed my food and suddenly realized how hungry and worn out I was.

I deserve this. 

I glanced at the numbers on my watch, nerves still wound up from the craziness on the floor. After all my hard work, not taking lunch until three, taking care of all our patients, two of whom had been transferred to the ICU. Finally, lunch. I deserve this.

Right behind this sense of entitlement came shock, and then humility. I deserve this? 

The term "deserve" jumped out like a red flag waving in front of my face. I exhaled and lowered myself into a black plastic chair and forked baked spaghetti into my mouth while reliving an afternoon in Cambodia:

It was hot. I was tired. Sweat ran down my face and dripped off my chin. I parked my bike by the landlord's house and walked around to the stairs to my apartment. They were steep, but today they seemed steeper than normal. Longer than normal. Why was it so far up to my apartment? Why did I have to climb such steep steps to get to a home that didn't even have air conditioning? I hoped the electricity was working so I could at least stand in front of the fan.

As I climbed the stairs I marveled about how different life was in America. The air conditioning. The refrigerators (sometimes two) in every home. The ability to control the climate inside, and our practice of sleeping with blankets because we keep it so cold. Elevators, escalators. Ice-cold Dr. Pepper. I marveled at how my students and friends in Cambodia didn't long for such things because either they didn't know they existed or they had never lived with these things before. They didn't even know to miss these things.

I was nearly at the top of the staircase, grasping the rail and gazing out over rooftops to inspect the Mekong's appearance that day, when I recognized it. There it was, bold and blaring in front of me, as clear as the coconut trees by the river.

Entitlement.

Each day when I felt tired and worn out, hot and sweaty, I would think about American comforts. I couldn't not think about them; they're the context in which I was raised. I would think about how much I missed them and how difficult it was to adjust to life without them.

For some reason though, on this day, as I willed my legs to bring me up those steep, brown stairs, I realized just because I am from America does not mean I am entitled to American comforts. Having lived with air conditioning and my own car and wifi for so many years did not entitle me to that way of life. Until that moment, I had been holding the American standard of living as the standard to which I was entitled. Subconsciously, my thinking was, "Cambodians have never lived that way, so of course they don't miss it, but I do. Life is harder for me in their country than it is for them. They are not entitled to comforts like air conditioning in their homes because they never had it in the first place."

Wham! Reality check.

I am not entitled to any of those things. My background doesn't entitle me to air conditioning, my childhood doesn't entitle me to refrigerators and ovens, and the country listed on my passport doesn't mean I deserve to have access to Dr. Pepper. I am not entitled to anything the people in Cambodia are not entitled to.

Furthermore, I am not even entitled to what I may think Cambodians are entitled to. We, as humans, Cambodian or American, are entitled to very little. Cambodians aren't entitled to wealth or healthy families or homes or farms or jobs. Neither am I. Neither are any of us.

Truthfully, we aren't even entitled to life. We've done nothing to earn it, to deserve it, to pay for it.

Recently, I heard a woman talk about how she realized she didn't deserve anything but death, and as a Christian she didn't even get that. We get so much we have no right to, and we don't even get the one thing we do deserve because Jesus is merciful.

I don't deserve any of this.

As I finished lunch yesterday, I stared out the window at the river of cars on I-35, and both my complaints and my entitlement were cut short. I thought about how I didn't deserve the oxygen I was breathing or the food I was eating. I thought about the thousands, perhaps millions, of people who didn't eat that day, and I remembered I was no more entitled to this hot meal - one of three meals I was eating in a day - than they were.

To clarify, I don't mean we shouldn't have food and life and clean water as human rights or the ability to vote and express opinions as civil rights. I mean the idea I (or you), as an individual, am entitled to comfort, an easy life, a good work day, a happy marriage, and a healthy body, when the rest of the world is dealing with all of those problems and more. Because all of those issues simply come along with being human.

Discomfort is part of the deal on Earth. I am no more entitled to comfort - even if what I would call comfort is different from what a Cambodian would call comfort - than the person who lives down the street from my apartment in Cambodia.

Hardship is part of the deal on Earth. I am no more entitled to access to clean water than those who walk miles to fetch murky water from a river.

Physical death is part of the deal on Earth. I am no more entitled to life than the patient dying in a developing country's hospital from a condition which is easily curable in the States.

Sickness, pain, depression, death. They are all part of the deal here on Earth.

We have been gifted so many things. Our every breath, our ability to move our limbs and function today, our meals and beverages and hot showers and cold-aired houses.

Spiritually, we have been gifted the offer of eternal life.

Eternal life!

We accept all these other gifts so easily, mostly without consciously receiving them. Here, though, is a gift of another caliber. The gift of not receiving the one thing we do indeed deserve: Death, eternally. Separation from the One who loves us most. The gift of an offer of Life, eternally. Being in the presence of the One who loves us most, who did receive for us the one thing we deserved, who created and hears and cares for us.

We receive all these other gifts so passively, and we begin to believe we are entitled to them. But this gift of Life - this takes a conscious thought to receive because it isn't a thing but a Person. A relationship. The greatest gift of all given out of the greatest love of all. He offers the grand gift of salvation and the daily offer to abide in Him - to sit in His presence and live and walk and breathe with Him. The very exact opposite thing we are entitled to.

All we have to say to Him is yes.

Yes.

The Three Rushing Wolves

These past few weeks have been a flurry of traveling, joy, grief, happy reunions, moving and unpacking, praying about jobs, and learning. Lots and lots of learning.

Several months ago I posted about writer's block and life block, about the correlation between the two. (Remember this great quote by Ally Fallon? "I say that sometimes 'writer's block' is more likely 'life block' and what we really need is to find clarity and direction.")

As I continue this transition process, I keep facing more and more challenges and keep learning more and more. I've slowed down on the blog (as you may have noticed already) and am still in a season where I need time and space to continue readjusting to life in America. Thanks for your understanding and support during this season. Though it may be a little sporadic, I'll post as the writing comes naturally. One of the beauties of having this site is the freedom to wait for the writing to come to me instead of having to manufacture it for a deadline. 

However, I do miss blogging! This week I thought I'd share some writing I did long before I faced writer's block or life block or any kind of blocks aside from the colorful wooden ones.

So here is one of the first stories I ever "wrote." The Three Rushing Wolves reminds me of my passion for writing. It reminds me it's okay to leave the blog dormant for a while so when I do get back to writing, it comes from a place of pure enjoyment, just like this story. Hopefully the words will start coming again soon. (And maybe they'll be a little more profound than the story below!)

Until then, enjoy The Three Rushing Wolves (and no, I don't know why it's titled that!): a book written and illustrated by 5-year-old Allison, just for you!

*Thanks, Mom and Dad, for typing out the story, encouraging my creative pursuits...and teaching me what hydrophobia was at such a young age!

I'm in a season of rest and unwinding. What season are you in? Leave a comment or sent me an email! I look forward to hearing from you!

How the Olympics are Different from Real Life

When I was young, I took piano lessons, and every year I played in a piano competition called “Gold Cup.” Players didn’t compete against each other; rather, each musician prepared two pieces of music and then performed for a judge in a private room. The judge rated the pianist on a scale of 1-5. If you received scores of 3 or above for three consecutive years, you received a trophy.

One year, I entered the little room with the judge and the piano, and I absolutely butchered my first piece. I started off well, and then it all fell apart. I missed a note, my finger memory failed, I literally forgot a whole section of the piece, and I picked back up at the first spot I could remember and finished poorly. It was a disaster.

My second piece was okay. Not excellent, but stellar in comparison to the first song.

I was deeply disappointed, not because I might miss out on a trophy but because I had performed more poorly than I ever had before.

The judge talked about how I started so strong before everything fell apart. The Olympics happened to be occurring during this time frame, and my default for handling disappointment was humor. I must have just watched an Olympian blow a chance at a medal or something, because with a half smile on my face, I jokingly turned to the judge and said, “It’s kind of the like the Olympics. You can work so hard, and then you get one shot, and that’s it!”

After a couple comments on my playing, what the judge said next shocked me: “Why don’t you try the piece again?”

“What?” was all I could manage to say. Not only was this unorthodox (and maybe not allowed?), but judges were also always behind schedule and pressed for time. Dozens of children waited in chairs outside the room for the brief, five minute chance to play their songs for a judge.

“Why don’t you try the piece again?” the judge repeated gently.

I ended up playing the piece again—and butchering it again, though I don’t recall if it was as bad as the first time. The judge gave me tips on how to overcome nerves in high pressure situations, but the grace given made a far more lasting impact than the words spoken.

What that judge did made an impression on me. That judge helped me understand life isn’t the Olympics.

As someone with a natural bent toward perfectionism and placing worth in performance, it’s easy to view my actions as make-it-or-break-it events. In some ways, I've viewed my life as a series of Olympic events. Because I demanded perfection of myself, every situation was a challenge with no grace and no do-overs. I've struggled to be okay with mistakes or failures or weaknesses. There's always been a score board. Eventually, if I'd train hard enough and push myself, I would win the gold medal in perfection. Or at least that’s what I told myself all those years.

It's taken me years to learn what the Gold Cup judge tried to help me understand so long ago, that playing the piano as a teenager isn’t the Olympics. It’s real life. It’s messy, and there are screw ups and balks and absolute failures. Living life each day isn’t the Olympics. It turns out I was the only one keeping score of my successes and failures, and training for perfection simply isn’t real. The true reward comes in the lessons learned and the processes of life.

We live, we make mistakes, we do things well, we learn, we build relationships, and we do it all again tomorrow. There is grace. There are do-overs. There is forgiveness and learning, and there are people and a God who welcome us in with open arms at the end of the day, no matter what our performance looked like, because they know who we are.

This week as I watch the Olympics, a shift in values and perspective finds me most drawn to the athletes’ back stories rather than their performance. I want to know where they came from, what they do outside of sports, and what their dreams are for the future. Some are moms, some students, some entrepreneurs.

As they hug and shake hands with their competitors, and as they rejoice with their families after events, I can’t help but wonder at the relationships they’ve built and wonder if those relationships are sweeter than the gold on a string. I can’t help but long to know about the lives they’ve built, because all of our lives are made of so much more than our performances, our achievements, and our actions in the public eye. I can’t help but wonder at where their true identity lies, because I know from personal experience building an identity on ability to perform is devastating.

I wonder about their real, day to day lives, because as much as I love the Olympics (and I do, I’ve been watching every day and set my TV up for the sole purpose of watching them), real life is simply not like the Olympics. No, it’s much, much better.