Why I Quit Full Time Nursing—And What I Learned From It

A year ago today I worked my last shift as a full time registered nurse in Waco. I resigned so I could move to Cambodia for a few months to teach English and work with a church, which was one of the best decisions I could have made.

When I returned to the States, I decided not to go back to full time nursing, which was also one of the best decisions I’ve made but one that surprised quite a few people around me. Currently, I’m PRN (as needed), and I love it. Here’s what I’ve learned since quitting full time nursing.

                                                          PRN

It seems crazy.

It seems crazy to quit a full time nursing job for a variety of reasons: my education is specialized and specific to nursing, nurses make a fair amount of money, and the schedule is, for the most part, convenient and flexible. Plus, nursing school was a lot of work.

At times I feel pressure from others and society in general to work full time. But if I’m being honest, most often the pressure I feel comes from within. “I’m young, healthy and able to work,” I tell myself. “I’m lazy for not working at the hospital more.” When I think these things, I have to walk myself through the steps I took to decide not to work full time. Step one is remembering:

Nursing drains me.

After a long shift a couple weeks ago, I came home and told my roommate that nursing drains me not just physically but also emotionally and even spiritually. Part of this is due to the nature of nursing—the emotional and spiritual components to caring for people—but part is also due to the way nursing plays to some of my greatest weaknesses.

For example, when I’m at work, I’m the point of contact for my patients’ care, and my patients are constantly changing. Being the point person for anything (or anyone) isn’t my natural bent, and neither is investing in short-term relationships with patients. Though these things are easily overcome with a little extra energy and effort, all the “little extra’s” start to add up.

However, since I quit working full time, I’m getting to live out my dream jobs, and that fills me up.

A couple months ago when a coworker asked what my dream job would be, I was excited and surprised to tell her, “I’m living them out now: working with at-risk students and writing." I paused before adding, "Nursing wasn’t ever part of my dream, but it finances what I really want to do.”

I regularly spend time writing and volunteering with students each week, and though they don't pay the bills, these activities are more than rewarding. They help fill me back up, and when I show up at the hospital I have a surplus, not a deficit.

This makes me a better nurse and a better coworker.

When I started back at the hospital after returning from Cambodia, I found the time away had allowed me to recover from burnout. I was less cynical, more compassionate, and could maintain my sense of humor even on poopy days (literal and figurative). I had the energy to help coworkers if they need a hand, which I’m extra glad I could do because I work with some of the best nurses out there! Though I still have rough days at work, I’ve found having a few extra days in between shifts keeps the burnout at bay. When I’m not burned out, I’m closer to being the nurse I want to be, the coworker I want to be, and the person I want to be.

Overall, I’m less stressed working PRN.

I’m less stressed when I’m at work. I like that it’s my choice to sign up for a shift instead of having to show up a certain number of times a week and work certain weekends. It helps me not dread going to work and not blame the workplace if I have a bad day—because I chose to go in that day. Nobody forced me.

I’m also less anxious when I’m not at work. Fewer shifts and more time to do what I love means less stress. I’m learning a season with a slower pace of life is perhaps the healthiest thing for me right now—physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

Because of what I've experienced, I'm redefining success.

I've struggled with guilt over not having a full-time job, and I've questioned my work ethic and my sanity. I've had to decide what success would be to me. Success could be the numbers in my bank account, the letters after my name, the hours on my time card, and the reputation as a hard-working employee. Or it could be who I am and how I am.

It's worth it.

In the eyes of a money-chasing, corporate-ladder-climbing society, my lifestyle makes no sense. But to me? My lifestyle is wildly successful. Life probably won’t always allow me work PRN, but for now, I’m so grateful for the chance to live my dreams.

To me, quitting full time nursing is worth it. It’s worth it to get to follow my passions and serve students. It's worth it to allow myself time and space to reevaluate what career fits my talents and gifts. It’s worth it to be a better nurse and a better coworker. It’s worth it because I’m convinced my choice to quit full time nursing is helping me become the person I was made to be.

Entitlement and Gifts

It snuck up on me slowly, like a ninja or a stealth aircraft, or a ninja on a stealth aircraft. It ambushed me successfully as I sat down for lunch yesterday at work. The day was busy and stressful, and it was nearly three o'clock when I finally found myself in the break room placing my tupperware in the microwave. When the microwave beeped, I grabbed my food and suddenly realized how hungry and worn out I was.

I deserve this. 

I glanced at the numbers on my watch, nerves still wound up from the craziness on the floor. After all my hard work, not taking lunch until three, taking care of all our patients, two of whom had been transferred to the ICU. Finally, lunch. I deserve this.

Right behind this sense of entitlement came shock, and then humility. I deserve this? 

The term "deserve" jumped out like a red flag waving in front of my face. I exhaled and lowered myself into a black plastic chair and forked baked spaghetti into my mouth while reliving an afternoon in Cambodia:

It was hot. I was tired. Sweat ran down my face and dripped off my chin. I parked my bike by the landlord's house and walked around to the stairs to my apartment. They were steep, but today they seemed steeper than normal. Longer than normal. Why was it so far up to my apartment? Why did I have to climb such steep steps to get to a home that didn't even have air conditioning? I hoped the electricity was working so I could at least stand in front of the fan.

As I climbed the stairs I marveled about how different life was in America. The air conditioning. The refrigerators (sometimes two) in every home. The ability to control the climate inside, and our practice of sleeping with blankets because we keep it so cold. Elevators, escalators. Ice-cold Dr. Pepper. I marveled at how my students and friends in Cambodia didn't long for such things because either they didn't know they existed or they had never lived with these things before. They didn't even know to miss these things.

I was nearly at the top of the staircase, grasping the rail and gazing out over rooftops to inspect the Mekong's appearance that day, when I recognized it. There it was, bold and blaring in front of me, as clear as the coconut trees by the river.

Entitlement.

Each day when I felt tired and worn out, hot and sweaty, I would think about American comforts. I couldn't not think about them; they're the context in which I was raised. I would think about how much I missed them and how difficult it was to adjust to life without them.

For some reason though, on this day, as I willed my legs to bring me up those steep, brown stairs, I realized just because I am from America does not mean I am entitled to American comforts. Having lived with air conditioning and my own car and wifi for so many years did not entitle me to that way of life. Until that moment, I had been holding the American standard of living as the standard to which I was entitled. Subconsciously, my thinking was, "Cambodians have never lived that way, so of course they don't miss it, but I do. Life is harder for me in their country than it is for them. They are not entitled to comforts like air conditioning in their homes because they never had it in the first place."

Wham! Reality check.

I am not entitled to any of those things. My background doesn't entitle me to air conditioning, my childhood doesn't entitle me to refrigerators and ovens, and the country listed on my passport doesn't mean I deserve to have access to Dr. Pepper. I am not entitled to anything the people in Cambodia are not entitled to.

Furthermore, I am not even entitled to what I may think Cambodians are entitled to. We, as humans, Cambodian or American, are entitled to very little. Cambodians aren't entitled to wealth or healthy families or homes or farms or jobs. Neither am I. Neither are any of us.

Truthfully, we aren't even entitled to life. We've done nothing to earn it, to deserve it, to pay for it.

Recently, I heard a woman talk about how she realized she didn't deserve anything but death, and as a Christian she didn't even get that. We get so much we have no right to, and we don't even get the one thing we do deserve because Jesus is merciful.

I don't deserve any of this.

As I finished lunch yesterday, I stared out the window at the river of cars on I-35, and both my complaints and my entitlement were cut short. I thought about how I didn't deserve the oxygen I was breathing or the food I was eating. I thought about the thousands, perhaps millions, of people who didn't eat that day, and I remembered I was no more entitled to this hot meal - one of three meals I was eating in a day - than they were.

To clarify, I don't mean we shouldn't have food and life and clean water as human rights or the ability to vote and express opinions as civil rights. I mean the idea I (or you), as an individual, am entitled to comfort, an easy life, a good work day, a happy marriage, and a healthy body, when the rest of the world is dealing with all of those problems and more. Because all of those issues simply come along with being human.

Discomfort is part of the deal on Earth. I am no more entitled to comfort - even if what I would call comfort is different from what a Cambodian would call comfort - than the person who lives down the street from my apartment in Cambodia.

Hardship is part of the deal on Earth. I am no more entitled to access to clean water than those who walk miles to fetch murky water from a river.

Physical death is part of the deal on Earth. I am no more entitled to life than the patient dying in a developing country's hospital from a condition which is easily curable in the States.

Sickness, pain, depression, death. They are all part of the deal here on Earth.

We have been gifted so many things. Our every breath, our ability to move our limbs and function today, our meals and beverages and hot showers and cold-aired houses.

Spiritually, we have been gifted the offer of eternal life.

Eternal life!

We accept all these other gifts so easily, mostly without consciously receiving them. Here, though, is a gift of another caliber. The gift of not receiving the one thing we do indeed deserve: Death, eternally. Separation from the One who loves us most. The gift of an offer of Life, eternally. Being in the presence of the One who loves us most, who did receive for us the one thing we deserved, who created and hears and cares for us.

We receive all these other gifts so passively, and we begin to believe we are entitled to them. But this gift of Life - this takes a conscious thought to receive because it isn't a thing but a Person. A relationship. The greatest gift of all given out of the greatest love of all. He offers the grand gift of salvation and the daily offer to abide in Him - to sit in His presence and live and walk and breathe with Him. The very exact opposite thing we are entitled to.

All we have to say to Him is yes.

Yes.

Reentry: the Beginning

It’s been almost three weeks. By the time you’re reading this, I’ll have spent time in five cities, two states, and two countries, and I'll have stayed in six different homes since I landed in Houston on June 8. What a ride it’s been! Here are my thoughts on reentry so far.

I’m holding it together on the outside (well, most of the time), but on the inside I’m still a mess. 

I still have existential crises over very simple things. For example, when I go for jogs in the morning it freaks me out thinking about how little I sweat during the day and how everywhere is air conditioned. Everywhere.

Example number two: I almost cried in a specialty craft store because everything in the building was just for fun. My Cambodian friends poked fun of us (Americans) because we do things “for fun.” No practical purpose. Not for food, not for money, not for resources. Just for pure enjoyment. We have entire stores in which everything sold is just for fun.

The change in culture, environment, and norms are huge. How does one make sense of it all?

It’s like I’m in information and sensory overload all the time.

My days haven’t been overbooked. In fact, they haven’t even been fully booked. I’ve visited with people and enjoyed their company, and I’ve had plenty of down time. Under normal circumstances, this schedule would be fine. However, I’ve found in this reentry process it’s easy to become overwhelmed because everything is taking twice as long to process.

So much change has taken place—from highway construction to friends’ relationship statuses—and it’s quite a task taking it all in. Again, how does one make sense of it all?

I’m still scared.

Recently I wrote in a post about how a friend asked about my fear.

I didn’t realize what a relief it was to talk about fear until she asked this question. In most conversations, I mention that living overseas is hard, and I may throw in a bit about loneliness. Yet somehow, I gloss over fear. I hit on this in my reentry confessions a few weeks ago, so I won’t delve into it here. The point is, I’m still terrified even though it may not show on the outside, and I'm still learning a lot about letting go of control.

I’m afraid my memories of Cambodia are losing accuracy.

In between the spurts of grief, life in Cambodia is starting to feel distant and far away. As I talk to friends and family about Cambodia, I find the same words coming out of my mouth again, and again, and again. I didn’t rehearse these lines, but they come out as though they’re rehearsed. I answer the same questions with the same answers and make the same lame jokes every time.

Rote answers scare me because it means I'm not actively remembering Cambodia and what it was like. I’m terrified I’m going to forget what life was really like—I’m afraid realistic memories will be swallowed up by rote answers. I’m afraid I’m going to lose my experiences.

Yet when I stop to think about life in Cambodia, I know I can’t possibly lose these memories. They’ve shaped me in ways too deep to be undone. I can’t un-remember the joy of riding on the back of a motorbike with the wind in my face, the serenity of writing blog posts at a restaurant in town, or the sweat dripping from my face all day long. No, I definitely cannot forget the sweat.

These experiences are forever a part of me, and so are the experiences learning to trust in God and witnessing His faithfulness over and over and over. I can’t un-remember this, and I can't un-trust Him. I’ve seen too much. I’ve been in too deep. With all my current fears and anxiety, I can’t stop believing Him and following Him. I guess that’s what happens when we say yes to His great invitation into His presence.

People may think I’m crazy for the way I live life (heck, I often think this whole thing is crazy), but today I’m clinging to this gift: I can’t un-see God’s goodness and faithfulness, and I can’t stop trusting and following Him. Fears, anxieties, transition messiness and all.

Growing Up as a Banana

“Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.” That’s what the term “banana” means. You guessed it: I'm Chinese American. 

I grew up in a primarily Caucasian Houston neighborhood, and though I wouldn’t say I faced discrimination, there are a few things I experienced simply because I wasn’t white. I dismissed those memories as unimportant for a long time, but today I want to recognize them because they do matter—especially as a child, which is when these experiences occurred.

 Memory #1: Playground Woes

We were playing a game of tag on the playground at the YMCA during my brother’s baseball practice. My sister and I joined the other players’ younger siblings to swing, show off our monkey bar skills, and finally play tag. It was all fun and games until one of the little boys asked what my ethnicity was.

“I’m Chinese American,” small, elementary-aged me replied proudly.

“Oh! China!” came the quick response.

Before I knew what was happening, this little boy egged on every child on the playground to chant with him: “Chi-na! Chi-na! Chi-na!” (And not in a kind, we’re-cheering-you-on way.)

Unfortunately, I happened to be “it” at the time, so I tried extra hard to tag another person and get rid of this unnecessary attention. Confused and upset, I just couldn’t catch them, and all of a sudden, as kids do, this little boy changed the rules of the game. 

“You can’t climb on the playground when you’re ‘it,’” he announced. “Only the other kids can climb.”

The rule change was accepted without second thought.

Thus began the real frustration. Somehow my younger sister also ended up being “it” (another unfair rule change in the middle of our game?), so the two of us ran in circles on the ground while the other boys and girls stood on the structure, taunting us by hanging off platforms until we got close, and then scurrying back into the middle of the play structure, out of reach. 

Over and over it happened. The little ringleader boy would stick his foot out. We’d see it and feverishly lunge toward it to tag him, and he’d pull back just in time and retreat to safety to laugh at us. All the while, the chanting continued.

“Chi-na! Chi-na! Chi-na!”

Suddenly, baseball practice was over. Parents came to pick up their children, and everyone dispersed. Practice ended, the game of tag ended, and so did my innocent pride for my heritage. I was humiliated.

I held my dad’s hand as we walked across the grass toward the parking lot.

“What country were they shouting?” he asked gently.

“China,” I mumbled, and then all was quiet.

Up until now, that’s the last time I spoke of this event to anyone, ever. Shame has that effect. As a child, I learned many things that day, but most of all, I learned to be ashamed my heritage was different.

Memory #2: The Eyes

This isn’t necessarily a single memory as it is a collection of them. It happened so many times I can’t even count or recount them all. But basically each time was the same:

Chinese anything came up in conversation—Chinese culture, Chinese names, Chinese food—and one of my little Caucasian friends would impulsively put their fingers to their eyes and squint to make it look like they had “China eyes.” Sometimes gibberish would come out of their mouths as they spoke “Chinese.”

Occasionally moms and dads would scold their children, but most of the time parents weren’t present. To say it was awkward is an understatement. Sometimes the kids didn’t even know I was Chinese, and after a few initial times of telling them to “please stop because I am Chinese and it isn’t nice to make fun of people,” my spunk shrunk and I shut up.

Now, much later in life, every once in a while close friends and I will joke about my eyes, but there’s a definite line between mutual joking with a friend and mocking someone’s (or a whole people group’s) appearance.

It took me a lot longer than the playground incident to learn this lesson as a child, but learn it I did: it’s not cool to look different from other people. I learned to be ashamed of my appearance because I wasn’t white.

Here and Now

Were those children trying to make me ashamed of who I was? No, I don’t believe so. Children do and say inappropriate things all the time. That’s how they learn. I’m sure I said and did plenty of offensive things too when I was young. There is grace for all.

Why then am I even bringing this up? Because although there is indeed grace, there’s also a very real impact these events had on my perception of self. Today, I am so grateful for the diversity of my upbringing. I’m proud of the fact I grew up in a Chinese American family, and I’m proud of my heritage. Yet it’s taken some time to regain this pride.

I know now the “yellow on the outside” isn’t something to be ashamed of; it’s something to be treasured. I am not less beautiful because I am Asian, and the unique heritage I carry is a gift and an honor.

In a time when there is a huge push for “tolerance” and “acceptance,” perhaps it’s wise to remember the actions which seem most insignificant often have the deepest and most long-lasting impact on those around us.

Thanks for reading! There are many issues I didn’t address in this post, and I would love to hear your thoughts on them:

• Is there an imbalance between the passion around ballot issues for equality and the willingness to identify & adjust our personal, everyday biases and shaming practices?
• If so, how do we address everyday shame-creating actions/conversations?
• How do we help young people process these shameful moments/interactions?
• What are ways childhood experiences shaped how you view(ed) yourself (race-related or not)?
• How did you process these experiences?

Leave a comment, send an email, or come share a cup of coffee with me and tell me what you think in person!