The thin morning light slices through the dusty curtains of my cramped city apartment kitchen. The kettle whistles softly, a gentle punctuation in the quiet.
I lean over the steaming bowl I’ve just made—clove steam rising sharply, its scent thick and biting.
This ritual started a week ago, a curious attempt at finding relief from the mounting stress.
But today, the scent feels different, almost sharp enough to pinch nerves raw.
“Am I really doing what I should?”
The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as I breathe in the steam.
The days have blurred into a repetitive loop: wake up, shallow breaths with the clove steam, a long day at the clinic.
I’m a junior nurse, pushing through understaffed shifts, coming home to my own mounting anxieties about health.
The ritual is meant to soothe, yet it underlines my unease.
My supervisor barely notices my presence unless there’s a mistake; otherwise, I’m just a ghost on the floor.
The higher-ups dismiss my suggestions for even minor improvements quietly, their silences heavy with indifference.
This imbalance between those who hold power—the schedulers, the senior nurses—and those of us who carry the weight daily grows more obvious.
I’ve been requesting fewer night shifts for weeks, but the schedule never changes.
My exhaustion piles up while their world remains unaffected.
Meanwhile, I hold onto the clove steam as a small thread of control, a natural ritual that feels ancient yet powerful.
Since starting this ritual, the weeks have unfolded with mounting stress.
Week one, I felt hopeful about the ritual’s promise.
Week two, my supervisor brushed off a concern I raised about a medication order.
Week three, missed breaks and relentless paperwork.
Week four, a tense conversation with a colleague about shared frustrations.
Each encounter, each day, was a small escalation, tightening the coil of pressure without letting it snap.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
