https://www.infirmiere-canadienne.com/blogs/ic-contenu/2026/03/23/ne-font-pas-preuve-de-bravoure-heroique
We’re human, and we carry grief. So take the time to reflect. Acknowledge what weighs you down. Find a way to let it out before it breaks you.
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Some people say nursing is a calling. Some say it’s an art. Some say it’s just a job. The truth is, it’s all of those things, and more.
We often hear it said: “health-care workers are heroes.” But the truth is, we’re not.
We’re human.
We are sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, friends, partners, and colleagues — just like everyone else. We hurt. We feel. We cry. We scream. We fight. We laugh. And somehow, despite it all, we hold it together while facing some of the darkest moments humanity has to offer.
Courtesy of Kent Soltys
“In the end, I believe there’s no better way to live than to try, every day, to help another human being, whether it’s at work, in your community, or simply in your heart,” Kent Soltys says.
We’re the ones who stand beside you as you hold the hand of someone you love. We’re the ones who work relentlessly to save a child, a mother, a father, a friend. We show up at work when the weather is awful. We show up when it’s a once-in-a-century blizzard. We show up even when our own lives feel like they’re quietly falling apart behind the scenes.
Every time we step into a hospital, we bring the best of what we have left to give. Sometimes we smile when we really want to cry. Sometimes we cry when there’s no more space left to hold it in.
The reality is: we’re not heroes. We’re human.
We offer care in every circumstance — to all people, in all situations, no matter who they are or how they come to us. I’ve seen the strongest among us fall apart, and I’ve seen those who thought they were too weak stand tall in the face of overwhelming trauma.
Some people say nursing is a calling. Some say it’s an art. Some say it’s just a job. The truth is, it’s all of those things, and more.
Most of us who step into this field do so because, somewhere deep down, we have a profound desire to help. A desire to care for the forgotten. To comfort the unseen. To lift up the fallen. We do this job because we see hope, even in the darkest places. Because we believe that no matter how broken the world may seem, there is still good to be found.
This article is a voice for them — for those who choose to remain hidden in the shadows of bravery. It is for the unsung hero: the health-care worker who gives the last piece of themselves so that someone else might reclaim theirs.
As a former emergency department nurse, I have seen many people arrive in their most vulnerable states. They come broken, scared, in pain, or desperate for help. They come with addiction, with chest pain, after a fall, or with something they can’t even name. Some arrive by ambulance, some walk in alone, some come with family or friends.
And as nurses we respond.
We assess.
We comfort.
We stabilize.
We do everything in our power to help.
But one of the hardest truths in health care is this: sometimes even our best isn’t enough.
And that’s where the weight begins to build. What happens to those of us who give everything and still lose? What happens when we pour every ounce of ourselves into saving someone, and it doesn’t work? How do we get up and do it again? How do we keep going — room after room, shift after shift — while carrying the weight of the ones we couldn’t save?
Who helps the helper?
I’m not asking these questions to provoke or confuse, but to shine a light on something we rarely talk about: health-care workers carry grief. Quietly. Relentlessly. Often alone.
Some of us cope by laughing. Some cry. Some take a breath, grab a coffee, and carry on. But where does that grief go when the momentary reset isn’t enough? Many of us bury it deep inside. But what happens when there’s no more room to hold the sadness?
What about the new nurse who has no idea how heavy this work can become? No textbook can prepare them for what it feels like to absorb another person’s suffering, and then be expected to do it all again the next day.
For the new nurse, for the seasoned provider, for anyone in between, and everyone who comes after, this is my hope: Take the time to reflect. Acknowledge what weighs you down. Find a way to let it out before it breaks you. Whether it’s confiding in a person, visiting a place, or engaging in an favoured activity — whatever helps you release the heaviness — do what brings you happiness.
Because we are not heroes. We are human. And that is more than enough.
We are a beautiful, messy, courageous group of people who, despite what we carry, wake up each day and give our hearts to help ease someone else’s pain. I write this to honor that. To shine a light on those who give their light to others in the name of care.
In the end, I believe there’s no better way to live than to try, every day, to help another human being, whether it’s at work, in your community, or simply in your heart.
To my fellow health-care workers:
Love yourself.
Love your life.
And never forget: it’s not the grand gestures that change lives. It’s the small acts of kindness, the moments of presence, and the quiet resilience that make the work we do truly meaningful.
We are not heroes.
We are human beings.
We are compassionate. We are kind. We absorb the suffering of others in the hope of healing, and we feel that suffering, even if we don’t show it outwardly.
In my experience, this is why health-care workers get up every day, show up every day, and live with their hearts wide open in the effort to heal. And that is what makes us each and every one of us extraordinary.
Kent Soltys, RN, BSN, is a clinical nurse educator and mentor working and living on Vancouver Island. He is also a passionate advocate for supporting and empowering nurses and health-care workers at every stage of their careers.
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