Enough Was Enough – Overcoming a Traumatic Workplace

by Donna Barnett

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

It was the end of my shift. I had just finished a grueling three-day stretch, and even the simple act of changing out of my scrubs felt daunting. My lower back ached, my bladder screamed for relief, my hemorrhoids throbbed, and my stomach was painfully empty. I was done.

I’d been an obstetric nurse at the same hospital for 43 years. It wasn’t always “enjoyable”—changing poopy diapers, cleaning up after messy deliveries, and endless computer charting—but it was my calling. I wouldn’t have traded it for any other job. Teaching a new mom to change her baby’s diaper and seeing her beam with pride, reassuring a pregnant patient after a scary preeclampsia diagnosis, watching the relief on the anxious faces during Zoom classes on labor and delivery—these moments fulfilled me.

My retirement plan was to step away at 66 and two-thirds to maximize my pension and Social Security. But that day came 15 months early. The last three shifts had been brutal: poor staffing, heavy workloads, skipped breaks, and endless delays due to a lack of supplies. That last day put me over the edge. I remember I had a heavy assignment, but so did everyone else. We were down six nurses that day. The night nurse I followed was new, and so I spent most of the morning catching up on what hadn’t been done. A patient needed a blood transfusion, which we rarely do on our unit. Normally, I would get assistance with my other patients, but there was no one that day.

We’d had multiple admissions of labor patients, so everyone else was busy, too. I was on my own. Since it was a weekend, supplies were limited, forcing me to go station to station looking for them. My patients were all first-time parents, so their needs were constant—no CNAs. I didn’t do any charting until after I gave report to the pm shift. I kept going and going, and finally, when I got home, I trudged through the door and told my husband, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.” I’d said those words before, but this time, I meant them. And I never went back.

I was the kind of nurse who built relationships. I sat at the bedside. I taught, reassured, listened. I tailored care to each patient and made sure they understood how to care for themselves and their newborns upon discharge. I was proud of that. But hospital care changed. Fewer nurses. Heavier assignments. Our unit lost most of our nursing assistants, and their tasks—refilling water pitchers, making beds, bathing patients—became ours. That time, though seemingly small, chipped away at what only nurses could do.

If I had a poorly coping, exhausted mother, I would take time at the start of my shift to create a sleep plan. If I had a baby struggling to latch, I’d call in the lactation team and work with the family. On discharge day, I’d go over what to expect at home, warning signs, and when to call the doctor. I always asked if they had more questions—sometimes, I’d even throw in a joke to lighten the mood. But time for those meaningful moments was vanishing.

Charting demands became overwhelming. The electronic records required more time, more clicks, and more requirements. I refused to chart in patient rooms—I found it distracting and impersonal. When I was with my patients, I wanted to be fully present. Developing trust and rapport was imperative. But that meant staying late to chart, and staying late meant scrutiny from management. I skipped breaks. I ignored my own needs. I rushed from task to task, room to room, never quite catching up. I was often the last one out of the changing room. Driving home, I felt dissatisfied and unfulfilled. I’d developed a cardiac arrhythmia, was having bladder spasms, constipation issues, and I felt anxious more often—a problem I previously had under control.

I didn’t quit nursing. I retired early because I could no longer be the kind of nurse I wanted to be. My body gave out. My spirit followed.

Surprisingly, I didn’t feel guilty. I knew my coworkers would carry on. I knew that if I couldn’t give my patients the care they reasonably deserved, then I couldn’t keep working. But what I didn’t expect was what came next.

Not long after I retired, the disturbing dreams began. Night after night. Then a short break. Then again. They followed the same script: I’d spend all shift with one demanding patient and never see the others. I’d forget to chart. I’d show up late for report, unable to find my locker or my scrubs. Always frantic. Always behind. In some dreams, I was positive they were real, and I’d be angry at myself for going back. I’d tell co-workers this was my last shift and I was supposed to be retired. I’d wake up relieved it wasn’t real. Yet, during these dreams, it was very real. I felt the same frustrations, anger, and dissatisfaction I’d felt when I was working. I found myself making “to-do” lists every morning and then pushing myself to get everything done, even if it wasn’t necessary. This went on for over a year. I mentioned these dreams to my family and many ex-co-workers. Was I trying to validate how overwhelmed I’d become? Did I feel a need to explain my actions?

I wondered if it was PTSD. But by definition—per the National Institute of Mental Health—PTSD stems from a traumatic event. I hadn’t faced one defining trauma. What I’d experienced was pressure. Constant and unrelenting pressure to be and do everything for every patient.

Eventually, I sought therapy because the dreams had become frequent again, and I was afraid to go to sleep. It had been at least a year, and I was worried they’d last forever. I asked other retirees if they’d experienced anything similar, but no one had.

The solution was surprisingly simple. One day, my therapist encouraged me to stop fixating on what I didn’t do—and start focusing on what I had done.

Carefully, I began to reflect. I remembered a patient I had stayed with long after the end of my shift, convinced her baby was in danger. I went up the chain of command, finally reached a physician, and the patient was transferred to a high-risk facility. That night, she had an emergency C-section. The baby lived. Months later, that mother returned to thank me.

I remembered the mothers I taught, the plans I created, and the fears I helped ease. Even something as small as bringing an ice pack for a sore bottom—those acts mattered. Patients were appreciative. I held many hands, coached many laboring moms, helped latch many hungry babies, and reassured many frightened parents.

Today, my dreams have stopped—mostly. When they do return, I remind myself of all the moments I made a difference. I know I have worked hard for 43 years. I was a good nurse. And that is enough.

We are so quick to measure ourselves by what’s left undone. But we rarely give ourselves credit for what we did accomplish. When I make the effort to shift my focus, I feel pride. I feel worthy. I’ve had to shift my focus from taking care of others to taking better care of myself. I still make long “to-do” lists, but I have had to teach myself that being retired means I am allowed to slow down, and it’s ok if I don’t get everything done in one day. No one is ringing that call light but me.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR: Gabriel Nathan | EDITOR: Kavita Sarmah | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman

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