Seeing Beyond the Pain

Not long ago, I cared for a young woman recovering from a serious accident. She’d survived injuries that would have broken many people, both physically and emotionally. Multiple surgeries, endless procedures, unpredictable pain, and a future she couldn’t quite see anymore. Her mother sat quietly at her bedside every day — exhausted, protective, and carrying the kind of worry only a parent can understand. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes stayed fixed on her daughter, as if letting go for even a second might cause something to slip.

During report, I was warned that this patient could be “demanding.”

She wanted her medications on time, down to the minute.

She was easily frustrated.

She questioned every delay.

But years in nursing have taught me something I wish more people understood: every behavior tells a story. People don’t wake up one morning and decide to be “difficult.” What looks like anger is often unspoken fear. What looks like irritation is usually relentless pain. And what looks like a need for control is sometimes the only thing a person feels they have left in a world that has spun completely out of theirs.

When I walked into her room for the first time, she was in tears. Not the soft, quiet kind — these were tears from deep frustration and emotional exhaustion. She felt unseen. She felt unheard. And she felt powerless in a body that had betrayed her.

Instead of rushing through the tasks on my list, I slowed everything down. I pulled a chair up beside her. I explained what I was doing and why. I gave her choices when I could. I let her talk. I let her be upset. I let her feel what she was feeling without making her feel like she was “too much.”

That small shift — giving her a little bit of control in a moment where she had none — changed everything. Her tone softened. Her breathing eased. Her anxiety lost its grip. And even though her pain didn’t disappear, it felt a little lighter because she no longer felt alone inside it.

The next day, I cared for her again. This time, I had to change the dressing on her external fixation pins — the first change since surgery. Even with her routine pain medication already given, I could see the pain shoot across her face the moment I began. Every time I accidentally brushed against the metal frame, she winced and cried. It wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t performative. It was real, raw pain.

So I took action. I administered a breakthrough medication that had been ordered specifically for severe pain beyond her routine dose — the kind of pain that procedures like this are known to cause.

When the next nurse came on shift, she wasn’t happy about it.

“Now she’ll expect those between her routine doses, since you told her she can have them,” she said.

I told her the truth: the medication wasn’t given because the patient wanted it. It was given because she needed it. Because she deserved relief during a painful procedure. Because suffering through it would have been cruel and unnecessary.

That moment stayed with me long after my shift ended.

Too often in healthcare, we forget that patients aren’t trying to make our jobs harder. They’re trying to survive something they never asked for. They’re scared. They’re hurting. They’re navigating trauma, loss, and uncertainty that we can’t always see from the outside.

When we let frustration, convenience, or judgment guide our decisions, we lose sight of what nursing truly is: compassion in action.

Empathy doesn’t create more work — it creates trust.

And trust heals.

Our patients are more than their behaviors. Behind every sigh, every demand, every tear, there is a story. Fear. Exhaustion. Trauma. Humanity.

We are their safety net in the storm.

And I’ll never apologize for putting my patient’s needs first.

Because real nursing isn’t about getting through the shift —

it’s about showing up for the human being in the bed.