Today was one of those days..
Not a total disaster. Not amazing. Just heavy.
The kind of day where you’re doing what you’re supposed to do — running samples, fixing issues, answering calls, documenting, making sure no one dies on your watch — and at the same time your brain is somewhere else asking questions you don’t really have time to answer.
“Why am I here?”
And I don’t just mean physically here, in the lab, in this building, doing this work.
I mean here in life.
Because physically, I already know why I’m here. I’m here because the hospital needs numbers they can trust. I’m here because there are patients who can’t wait. I’m here because in a small place like this, if you’re not the one doing it, it just doesn’t get done.
But that’s not what I’m asking.
What I’m really asking is:
Why am I still carrying all of this?
Why am I still choosing to keep going on days when even simple things feel like work?
There are days where I just move. No questions. You switch to autopilot, handle what needs to be handled, keep pace, keep calm.
Then there are days like today.
Where you feel everything.
You feel how your body is getting harder to negotiate with. You tell your hand to move a certain way and it answers slow. You go to pick something up and you have to actually focus on it like it’s step-by-step, not automatic. You’re signing something and you’re low-key annoyed at how long it takes. You’re walking down the hall and you’re aware of your own steps like you’re thinking through each one.
Stuff that used to be easy now needs effort. Energy you used to spend on the work, now you’re spending just to keep yourself steady, controlled, presentable. On top of actually doing the job.
That alone would be enough to drain you.
Then you still have the pressure.
The phone ringing.
The “is this result STAT?”
The analyzer throwing an error at the worst time.
The quiet expectation that you’ll fix it because “you always do.”
You keep it together, because that’s the job. But inside you’re like:
How long can I keep doing this at this level?
That’s when the real question hits:
What am I doing this for?
Here’s my answer.
I’m here because I still believe the work matters.
People don’t see what we do, but they depend on it. When I run something and it tells the nurse, “This patient is not stable,” that matters. When I catch something that changes how fast a patient gets treated, that matters. When the instrument goes down and I’m the one who nurses it back to life at 2am because there’s nobody else, that matters.
So yes — I’m still here because I know I’m useful.
But that’s not the whole picture.
I’m also here because I am not done building my way out of this version of life.
And I don’t mean “out” like quitting or abandoning healthcare. That’s not what I’m saying.
I mean: I refuse to let this current version of me be the final version.
Because I’ve seen what happens to people in this field who just keep going, take every hit, and never build anything for themselves. They give everything to the job until the job is the only thing they have left — and then when their body can’t keep up anymore, the system moves on without them. No plan. No backup. No stability. Nothing set aside. Just “thank you for your service.”
That’s not going to be my story.
I am not going to be the person who held everything together for everyone else and forgot himself.
That’s the line.
So yeah, I’m here doing what I’m doing — but I’m also paying attention now. I’m building outside income. I’m getting smarter with money. I’m creating systems that don’t rely on me being at 100% every single hour of every single day just to function. I’m building something that can carry me when I’m tired, not something that only works when I’m in full fight mode.
I used to think “grind harder” was the solution. Now I know “build smarter” is the only way I’m going to survive long-term.
Here’s the part I don’t say out loud a lot: surviving the day is more expensive now. It costs more energy to do normal things. It costs more focus just to make it look like nothing’s wrong. It costs more recovery time after a shift. So if I don’t build something that supports me — mentally, physically, financially — I’m going to burn out early and call it “duty.”
No. I’m done romanticizing pain like it’s loyalty.
This is not about ego. This is about staying able.
Because this job will take all of you if you let it.
This field will try to convince you that constant exhaustion is “normal,” that missing time with your family is “part of the calling,” that being underpaid is “just how the market is,” and that you keeping quiet is “professional.”
And you start saying “it’s fine, I’m fine,” just to not make it a thing.
But I’m going to be honest tonight:
I’m not fine.
I’m functioning.
I’m grateful.
But I am not fine.
I’m tired of pretending that running on fumes forever is some kind of badge of honor.
So why am I here?
Because I still care.
Because I’m still needed.
Because I’m still capable.
Because I’m still building what comes next.
That’s the truth.
But I’ll add this, for myself:
I’m here right now, yes — but I’m not staying here forever in this exact state.
I’m not meant to stay stuck in “survive mode.”
I’m not meant to ignore what my own body is telling me just to prove I’m tough.
I’m not meant to burn myself down to keep everyone else comfortable.
I’m allowed to want more.
I’m allowed to design a different life.
I’m allowed to protect my future without apologizing for it.
So yeah. Today was one of those days.
The kind where you stop and ask:
“Why am I here?”
And the answer isn’t clean,
but it’s honest:
I’m here because I’m not done —
and I’m staying long enough to become who I’m supposed to become next.
