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.
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