By Harriet Jordan 

Can you imagine being on the precipice of what feels like an apocalypse, and your only priority is to listen to a voicemail from a psychic about your love life? Holding back tears, hoping that someone else can give you the answers to questions about your relationship that were already in front of you but that you were too scared to accept? 

That is the exact situation I found myself in as a twenty-three-year-old newly qualified nurse. With a full bladder and aching bones, I step outside the ward. There is a distant mingling hum of bed buzzers and voices. I am sustained only by coffee and an erratic – even feral – energy of wanting my shift to end safely and on time. Listening to the psychic’s voice brought me no comfort; it did bring tears, raised hairs and a headache. 

I was desperate to believe in something greater than myself, to believe in this women’s ability to see my future. But I didn’t. Until this moment, I was a complete sceptic. Yet here I was, having spent £50 to find some hope in my future with a man who I knew had betrayed my trust. Funny, what you’ll do in desperation. 

I walk back in, mask on, reminding myself that partner infidelity is incomparable to difficulty breathing, the desperation of family members, the frequency of the phone ringing, the emptiness of the visiting chairs. I had become accustomed to poor staffing, poor resources and fear for not only my patients but their family, who were not allowed to see their loved ones. To say work felt unsustainable was an understatement. Yet it wasn’t what was giving me heartache. 

Coming into work didn’t hurt; it didn’t exhaust me like going home to him did. And even though I gave the best possible care to my patients, holding the hands of those ill and dying, I was numb. Having experienced so much of other people’s pain and anxiety, it made my own problems seem inconsequential. 

I held so much guilt for having the ‘wrong outlook’. As if feeling the way that I did meant that I didn’t have gratitude for life and the freedom I had to walk away from the hospital at the end of my shift. I was ashamed to think the psychic’s words, a stranger’s words, would give me the courage to align my values with my actions. Even more so, I was ashamed to be having a crisis over something so small in the scheme of the pain and suffering that I was working with every day.

The experiences I had on the ward during the start of the pandemic reminded me how finite life is and that while I have the honour of taking care of someone, it must also enforce the need to take care of myself. Honour my own experiences and emotions in every aspect of my life. No experience is too small to feel. Emotions shape us. When you’re unable to thrive, you do what you can to survive. That was what I had been trying to do. 

As the dust settles on the pandemic, one historical moment is coming to an end and making room for another. It is these aspects of life that feel uncontrollable but elucidate what is important to us in our lives. For me, that was genuine human connection with the people around me. Something I didn’t feel I had with the person nearest and dearest to me, who I thought would be the person I would spend my life with. But I wanted that life to be a life bathed in truth, and they couldn’t give me that. 

The ins and outs of the psychic’s message don’t matter, even if I was holding onto every word as if it was a lifeline. I am left with a curiosity about the future, whether a stranger was right and, more importantly, whether I can start aligning my values and actions and within that have courage. If I have nothing when I leave this earth that’s ok, but I want to have at least lived in truth and kindness – that includes kindness to myself. 

Human beings are resilient; we push through. But no human experience is more important than the other, and you can’t tally your experience for it to dictate your social righteousness or karmic deserving. Live life thoroughly and gratefully. Trust yourself and your strength.