Sarah's Story: Healing Within

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to care for others. I was that odd little girl lining up dolls in homemade hospital wards. No one was surprised when I became a nurse — and eventually specialised in palliative care. The work was demanding, but never burdensome. In fact, I found something almost sacred in it: being present in people's most vulnerable moments gave meaning to mine.

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I still feel that way. But after years of long shifts, complex cases, and emotional intensity, I couldn't deny the cost.

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I was exhausted — quietly, privately, profoundly.

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A colleague mentioned she'd been seeing a therapist for some time. She now went just once a month — a little space to reflect, process the emotional demands of her work and stay anchored. She gave me the name. I booked. It felt like the smallest act of self-respect I'd shown myself in years.

I rearranged my rota for one hour of therapy a week.

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One hour. I don't know why I waited so long.

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In those sessions, I spoke of patients lost, moments of helplessness, burdens carried alone. My shoulders ached. My chest loosened. Grief surfaced in ways I hadn't expected. Some memories I hadn't consciously held for years — but my body hadn't forgotten.

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We began EMDR slowly. There was no pressure to revisit everything at once. Gradually, I found myself able to approach memories and feelings I had spent years putting aside. Not dramatically, but gently, something began to shift. I stopped trying to be the strong one all the time. For once, I let the vulnerable part of me be cared for.

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A new thought began to take hold:

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I am still me, even when I pause.

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Even when I'm the one being held.

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And with each session, that belief grew. Not as a mantra. As a truth.

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My work still matters — but it's no longer the only thing that defines me.

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For the first time in years, I'm beginning to include myself in the circle of care.