The word burnout comes up often in healthcare these days.

We talk about staffing shortages, compassion fatigue, emotional exhaustion, and moral distress. We measure it, study it, and try to create solutions for it. And all of that matters. But I sometimes wonder if there is another kind of loss happening quietly underneath it all.

Not just exhaustion. Disconnection.

Disconnection from meaning.
Disconnection from purpose.
Disconnection from the human heart of caregiving.

Over the years, I have spent countless hours listening to nurses tell the stories behind why they entered this work. What always strikes me is how personal those stories are.

Very few people become nurses accidentally. Usually there is a story underneath it.

A loved one who was cared for tenderly.
A difficult illness.
A moment of vulnerability.
A nurse who made someone feel safe.
A desire to help people feel less alone.

I remember asking an ICU nurse once about her call to nursing. She paused for a long moment before answering. Then she told me about caring for someone she loved during a difficult season and realizing how much presence mattered. Not just skill. Presence.

That conversation stayed with me. Because nursing has never only been about tasks. It has always been about people. And I think that is part of why the work hurts so deeply when healthcare becomes too rushed, too impersonal, too focused on productivity.

Human beings are not checklists.

But healthcare systems can slowly train people to function as though they are. Move faster. Chart more. Finish the tasks. Keep going. Push through.

Over time, survival mode begins to feel normal. And survival mode changes the way we listen.

When people are overwhelmed, conversations can begin to feel like interruptions instead of connections. Silence becomes uncomfortable. Presence becomes difficult because there is simply no space left inside.

I do not say this critically. I say it with compassion. No one can continually pour from an empty cup.

This is one reason I care so deeply about listening in healthcare.

Not listening as technique. Not listening as one more communication strategy. But deep listening as presence. The kind of listening that slows us down enough to remember that the person in front of us is more than a diagnosis or room number.

And perhaps just as importantly, the kind of listening that reminds caregivers they are more than productivity metrics and unfinished charting.

In my listening work with nurses, I often notice the same pattern. At first, people talk about schedules, stress, staffing, and fatigue. But if given enough safe space, deeper things begin to emerge.

The patient they still think about years later.
The grief they never had time to process.
The fear of becoming emotionally numb.
The longing to feel connected to the work again instead of simply surviving it.

And underneath so much of it is a quiet question few people say out loud:

How do I keep my heart open in work that asks so much of me?

I do not think the answer is simply “try harder” or “be more resilient.” I think part of the answer is remembering what healing has always required.

Presence.
Compassion.
Attention.
Human connection.

People heal in the presence of someone willing to stay. And nurses offer that every day, often without realizing how much it matters.

Patients may forget the details of a hospital stay, but they remember the nurse who listened. The nurse who explained things gently. The nurse who sat down instead of standing at the door. The nurse who made a frightening moment feel a little less frightening.

Those moments are not extra to healthcare. They are part of healing itself.

So perhaps Nurses Week is not only a time to thank nurses for what they do. Perhaps it is also a time to honor what they carry. And to remember that long before healthcare became filled with screens, systems, and endless demands, nursing began with something profoundly simple:

One human being caring for another.