I began my working life in a place that taught me more about humanity than any classroom ever could. My first job as a licensed practical nurse was in a newly built wing of the extended care unit at Lions Gate Hospital. I was young, eager, and deeply committed to doing my job well. Caring for the elderly didn’t feel like work to me—it felt natural, almost like coming home.
I had grown up surrounded by elders. Alongside my birth mother, there were three other older women who helped raise me, each offering their own kind of wisdom, gentleness, and presence. Because of them, I felt comfortable with aging, with slowness, with stories told more than once. I genuinely loved elderly people, and I loved my work. I wanted to be a good nurse, a good friend, and above all, a good person. Laughter mattered to me. Connection mattered to me. Even in a hospital setting, I believed joy had a place.
On the surface, things looked good. I was hardworking, well-liked, and took pride in what I did. But underneath that competence and warmth, I was carrying a quiet sadness. My brother had been committed to an institution, and that reality weighed on me more than I knew how to express at the time. I showed up for others with care and compassion, even as I struggled to make sense of my own emotional landscape.
Hospital life demanded a lot physically. Shift work was something I tolerated rather than embraced. Night shifts, in particular, threw my whole body off balance. My sleep, my digestion, my sense of rhythm—it all felt disrupted. I did my best to stay healthy, navigating hospital food and odd hours while listening to my body as much as I knew how. Somewhere along the way, I became a vegetarian and began exploring holistic medicine and alternative therapies. It wasn’t rebellion; it was instinct. I was searching for balance, for ways to support the body rather than push it endlessly.
Even then, I could feel a quiet longing growing inside me. I wanted more freedom than my life allowed at the time. I dreamed of traveling, of possibly living in another country, of experiencing the world beyond the routines I knew so well. I also longed for a steady partner—someone I could talk to deeply, laugh with easily, and share life’s small and big moments. I wanted connection that went beyond the surface, something rooted in mutual curiosity and playfulness.
Looking back, I can see that this chapter of my life was about learning how to care—both outwardly and inwardly. I was devoted to others, but I was also beginning to sense that my own needs, dreams, and questions deserved attention. Working in extended care taught me about endings, patience, and dignity. It also quietly pointed me toward beginnings I hadn’t yet imagined.
This was not a time of dramatic change or bold declarations. It was a time of listening—listening to patients, to my body, to my heart. And in that listening, the first stirrings of a different life began to take shape, even if I didn’t yet have the words for them.
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