My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts

My first day as a registered nurse carried a weight I didn’t talk about out loud. I had already lived another life before this one—years as a flight attendant—years of noise, pressure changes, turbulence, and responsibility in the air. Somewhere along the way, I lost much of my hearing. What I gained instead was an attentiveness that ran deeper than sound.

I remember walking onto the unit that first morning, starched scrubs instead of a tailored uniform, the hum of machines replacing the roar of jet engines. I was acutely aware of what I could no longer hear clearly—overhead announcements, quick exchanges across the room—but also of what I noticed more than ever before. Faces. Breathing patterns. The subtle shift in a patient’s eyes that said something was wrong before any monitor ever did.

My training had prepared me clinically, but that first day taught me how much nursing depends on presence. I leaned in closer, made steady eye contact, read lips when needed, and asked patients to repeat themselves without embarrassment. I learned quickly to advocate for myself and for them. Losing my hearing hadn’t taken away my competence—it had sharpened my focus.

There was a moment during rounds when a patient squeezed my hand instead of answering a question. In that quiet exchange, I understood something clearly: healing isn’t only carried by words. It lives in touch, patience, observation, and trust.

By the end of that shift, I was exhausted in a way that felt earned. I had traded altitude for grounding, turbulence for endurance. That first day as a nurse marked another threshold—one shaped by loss, resilience, and purpose. I wasn’t starting over. I was bringing everything I had survived, learned, and adapted into a new way of caring for others.