In the Hospital Break Room, My Trembling Hands and the White Lines on My Fingernails Tell a Story I’m Afraid to Hear

The hospital’s quiet authority looms, pressing against my resolve.

Admitting weakness here feels like an act of rebellion.

Perhaps it is, in a way.

But not one I’m prepared to undertake just yet.

The fear of being sidelined is real, tangible.

Colleagues shrug off their own burdens, pushing through.

It’s what’s expected, after all.

The culture here is unforgiving, relentless.

Admitting vulnerability feels akin to failure.

The nails, once a minor curiosity, now feel like an urgent message.