Healthcare Hero
A day in the life of a caregiver.
Being a caregiver runs in my blood. Going back to World War II in 1939, with my great grandmother Sarah Massey. She was a member of the American Army Nurse Corps (ANC for short). Her employment ran until 1945, after the war ended, but her journey wasn't over. A young, handsome German soldier named John Joseph Derscha was badly wounded with a bullet in his left thigh. She dutifully cared for him until he was fully recovered, fell deeply in love, and went back to America together. Since then, the women in my family have answered the call to the unpredictable profession of nursing. I'm no exception. While my dream job is to be a published author, my passion lies in my position in healthcare. Since March 12th, 2012, I have been a Certified Nurse Aide (CNA), dedicating my life to providing quality care to all individuals.
What is a CNA, you ask?
Well, allow me to explain. Those of us in this field help others that can't do it for themselves. Anything and everything is in our job description! We bathe, dress, feed, assist in personal hygiene, perform activities to keep them entertained and active, support them during physical therapy, administer CPR in an emergency, and the essential thing, to be a companion for someone going through a hard time.
Why are we important?
It's simple, actually. Without people willing to do the long, arduous work, nothing would operate. A literal backbone, if you will, that carries everything. Every company needs grunt workers. Whether it's taking vital signs, giving an injection, cleaning the patient and the environment, doing laundry, or administering medications, caregivers are crucial pieces in the machine of the American healthcare system. Nobody else is capable of working 8-12-16 hour shifts, sometimes without a break, lift individuals weighing a minimum of 130lbs, sometimes without proper equipment, accurately report a change in condition, the status of wounds, changes in temperature, or other vital signs, etc. and also be able to smile genuinely despite it all.
Why do I love my job?
Being a CNA isn't a well-paying job; we spend a copious amount of time away from our families, and we don't receive half of the deserved praise, but I couldn't see myself doing anything else. To be the voice of someone who can't tell you what's wrong with them, who has lost their memories, families, that is the biggest reward. I get a sense of pride in providing help to those who need it. Sometimes it's something small like listening to a story, singing a song, looking at photographs, but in the end, the activity gives senior citizens purpose. It's for these reasons that I love my job more than I can express.
Would I recommend it?
Definitely! However, it's not for the faint of heart. Exhaustion and caregiver burn-out are issues that haven't been fixed. Teenagers straight out of high school are especially drawn to this line of work due to the quick hire rate and universal accessibility, but they don't stay in it long-term. After seeing the work up close and personal, other avenues of employment look appealing. In my opinion, it's important for anyone who goes to college for nursing should start as a low-tier CNA, doing the hard labor before pursuing it further. Pay-wise, LPN's (Licensed Practical Nurse) and RN's (Registered Nurse) are plentiful; on the other hand, they will respect employees more. Despite all the negativity, I firmly believe that anyone who wants to help people, out of the kindness of their hearts, belongs out on the frontline with me.
Nobody knows what the future holds; all we can do is our absolute best to support one another. I hope, no, I dream that everyone would learn to work and fight together to eradicate this virus that has our world on its knees, one shift at a time. I'm fully aware this is naive, but there's nothing wrong with a wish for a better tomorrow, is there? Hopefully, you, the reader, think so too.
Have a wonderful day, be safe, and salute those of us who actually care. After all, it's not only a job, its our passion.
About the Creator
Rain Dayze
Aspiring writer with a passion for spice, pets, and coffee. I've published through here before under a different name, but it's still me! I've got an alternative site for content: https://www.inkitt.com/angela5347
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Looking back: 2025 was a beast
It's difficult to know how to start this. I've suggested that it's been a tough one from my title and in many ways, it has; however, there is an argument that it's not been that extraordinary at all, merely this wonderful thing we call "life" with all its climaxes and pitfalls.
By Rachel Deeming20 days ago in Motivation
“One Day, I Realized Nobody Was Coming to Save Me—So I Saved Myself”
For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. Every day felt heavier than the last, like I was carrying a weight that kept growing while no one was looking. I woke up tired, went to bed tired, and spent the hours in between pretending I wasn’t. There was a quiet exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch—a tiredness that came from constantly hoping for relief that never arrived. I thought suffering had to be loud to be real. I thought pain needed witnesses to matter. Mine had neither. There was no dramatic breaking point, no single moment when everything fell apart. Instead, it unraveled slowly. Almost gently. Like a thread pulled so gradually you don’t notice the fabric weakening until it’s too late. I kept telling myself, Just hold on a little longer. Surely someone would notice. Surely someone would step in. Surely life wouldn’t let me keep feeling this way forever. But life did. And then one day—an ordinary day that didn’t announce its importance—I realized something that changed everything. Nobody was coming. That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. No montage-worthy transformation. Just small decisions that felt enormous at the time. Getting out of bed even when my body begged me not to. Choosing one task, then another, then another. Letting myself admit—quietly—that I was not okay. Some days, saving myself meant setting boundaries that made other people uncomfortable. I learned how often my exhaustion came from overextending myself to earn love, approval, or relevance. Saying no felt selfish at first. It felt wrong. But it also felt like oxygen. Other days, saving myself meant sitting alone with my feelings instead of numbing them. No distractions. No pretending. Just honesty. That was harder than any physical effort I had ever made. Facing your own thoughts can feel like standing in front of a mirror that refuses to lie. I began to understand something no one had taught me: healing is not linear, and it is rarely beautiful. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Frustrating. Some days feel like progress, others feel like failure. But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. I learned that being alone while growing is far healthier than being surrounded while shrinking. Strength, I discovered, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand recognition. Strength shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices you make when no one is watching. It shows up when you keep going even though the results are slow. When you forgive yourself for falling back into old habits. When you choose patience with yourself instead of punishment. There were setbacks—many of them. I stumbled. I doubted myself. I wondered if I was doing everything wrong. But this time, I didn’t collapse and wait for someone else to fix the damage. I picked myself up. Again and again. And something unexpected happened as I kept choosing myself: the world didn’t suddenly become easier, but I became stronger. Problems that once felt unbearable became manageable. Pain that once consumed me became something I could sit with without losing myself. I stopped asking, Why is this happening to me? I started asking, What can I do with what’s happening? That question changed everything. Today, my life is not perfect. I still have days when old fears resurface. I still feel tired sometimes. I still wish things were easier. But I no longer wait for rescue. I trust myself now. I trust that even if things fall apart, I will be there to put them back together. I trust that my worth doesn’t depend on who shows up for me. I trust that I am capable of building a life that feels like my own. And maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is this: realizing nobody is coming to save you is not a sentence. It’s an invitation. An invitation to stop shrinking. An invitation to take responsibility for your healing. An invitation to become the person you’ve been waiting for. If you’re reading this and you feel stuck—if you feel invisible, exhausted, or quietly breaking—I want you to know this: you are not weak for waiting. You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq5 days ago in Motivation
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