Wander & Wonder

There’s something different about a hospital at night. The fluorescent lights are brighter, the halls are quieter, and time feels suspended between late-night emergencies and the slow crawl toward sunrise. Working night shifts has taught me many things (mostly a newfound appreciation for sleeping at night), but one of the most unexpected lessons was how to sit with stillness without feeling guilty about it.

In life, and especially in medicine, I am so used to always being on the go. There’s always something to do, someone to help, a task to complete. Productivity is equated with worth, and any moment spent not actively working feels like a moment wasted. Night shifts exposed how deeply ingrained this mindset is. When things slowed down in the early hours, when I wasn’t rushing from one task to the next, I felt uneasy—like I should be doing something, anything, to justify my presence.

At first, I filled those moments with unnecessary busyness. I rechecked notes that didn’t need rechecking, organized supplies that were already in order, and hovered near the nurses’ station just in case something came up. But as I became more and more restless, I had to take a step back and remind myself that not every moment needs to be spent in motion.

Night shifts taught me that I need to get better at sitting with the quiet instead of scrambling to fill it. Moments of stillness aren’t laziness (especially when they are out of my control), but rather opportunities to reset. It seems as though we’ve been conditioned to believe that slowing down is a sign of weakness, that unless we’re exhausted, we’re not working hard enough. But perhaps rest is part of the work, and by slowing down, we can show up better when the next challenge comes.

And then, as the night fades and the sky starts to lighten, the sunrise serves as a quiet reminder that rest and motion both have their time.