Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Gallows Humor Gods,

It’s been three months since I met Sarah, and thinking back, I realize just how much she shaped my early days here. She showed up in that whirlwind of a first week when everything felt foreign and I was still wondering if I’d made a mistake. Turns out, Sarah’s more than a coincidence—she’s a reminder that sometimes the universe throws a lifeline when you need it most.

Sarah is from Utah, like me. She used to live in her van too and even worked in the same hospital system I left behind. It’s rare to cross paths with someone who just gets it right from the start. She reminded me so much of my friends back home, and in a way, it made the adjustment easier. We shared laughs about the quirks of van life, swapped stories about shifts back in Utah, and found comfort in knowing we were both on this strange path together.

As I settle deeper into correctional nursing, though, I’m starting to feel the strain of this environment—the tough realities I can’t ignore. Healthcare in a correctional setting is a world of its own, often shaped by the behavior of the very people we’re here to care for, and the years of wear it places on everyone involved. I see it in the correctional staff, in myself, and even in Sarah. Dealing with challenging behaviors day in and day out takes a toll, chipping away at the compassion we start with and creating a space where healthcare feels reactive rather than preventative.

Here, cynicism is contagious. You start to view every complaint through a filter, wondering if it’s real or just a play for attention. I see that creeping into my own practice, and it’s a hard reality to face. Sarah and I have talked about this shift—how easy it is to fall into patterns of detachment as a defense mechanism. She reminds me, though, that it’s possible to push back against that mindset, to keep a bit of our former selves alive, even in this environment.

So, three months later, I’m grateful for that first-week encounter. Sarah has been my kindred spirit in a place where empathy sometimes feels like a liability. She’s proof that, no matter where we find ourselves, we can still strive for balance and remember why we chose this path. It might be tough, but every day we keep that little spark alive feels like a win.

I think what gets to me most is how easy it is to lose sight of the humanity here—both in ourselves and in those we’re caring for. This job has a way of blurring lines, making you question what you’re really here to do. Every shift is a mix of navigating the endless rules and a constant need to prove you’re tough enough to handle it all. It’s a strange feeling, having to build walls while also trying to provide care that breaks through them.

But Sarah keeps reminding me, in her own quiet way, that walls don’t have to mean disconnection. She has this way of empathizing without becoming overwhelmed, like she’s mastered some balance that I’m still figuring out. We both have days where the strain shows—moments when we vent over stale coffee, laughing at how absurd this whole experience can feel. And on other days, when a patient really opens up or someone thanks us in a way that feels genuine, we cling to those small wins like lifelines.

I think that’s what Sarah and I have been learning together over these months: that compassion, even in small doses, still counts. Maybe it’s not always about changing the whole system or “saving” anyone—sometimes, it’s about showing up with as much integrity as you can muster. It’s about acknowledging the reality, yet finding a way to stay open, even in a place that often feels closed off.

There’s this quote she mentioned to me one night that’s been bouncing around in my mind ever since. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something about how true courage is often quiet, a choice to keep showing up when it would be easier to harden completely. I think that’s what I’m taking away from this time with her. The courage to care, even when it’s tough. To laugh, to keep that bit of Utah warmth alive between us, and to remember that we’re human, even when the environment tries to make us feel otherwise.

So tonight, I’m feeling reflective but also hopeful. As long as I’ve got a friend like Sarah, maybe I can make it through this place with a little more of myself intact. And who knows—maybe we’re both stronger than we think.

So, here’s to small wins, borrowed courage, and the rare kindred spirits who make this whole wild ride feel a little more bearable. Maybe healthcare in a prison isn’t the dream job we imagined, but with Sarah around, it’s one I can at least laugh about (most days) and survive (every day).

Until the next adventure in healthcare purgatory,
— Your reflective, still-slightly-hopeful, and slightly-jaded Nomadic Nurse