Almost seventeen years ago, I stepped onto my first hospital floor as a new mental health nurse. Fresh out of an accelerated nursing undergraduate degree program, I was brimming with ideals, determination, and the belief that good intentions and hard work could fix a broken healthcare system. Over time, that optimism met the harsh realities of systemic inequities, workplace burnout, and institutional inertia. But it also evolved, deepened, and matured into a more grounded commitment to social justice—a commitment that has been profoundly shaped by becoming a mother.
My nursing practice has taken me across two distinct regions of Canada: the unceded and traditional territories of the Coast Salish Peoples, including the Qayqayt, Kwikwetlem, Tsleil-Waututh, Squamish, and Musqueam Nations in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia; and the traditional territories of the Treaty 7 Nations in Calgary, which include the Blackfoot Confederacy (Siksika, Kainai, and Piikani Nations), the Tsuut’ina Nation, and the Stoney Nakoda Nations (Chiniki, Bearspaw, and Wesley). Working on these lands has deepened my understanding of healthcare inequities, colonial legacies, and the ongoing resilience of Indigenous communities.
When I first started nursing, my focus was primarily on the immediate tasks at hand: administering medications, dressing wounds, comforting patients in pain, and collaborating with my team. I saw nursing as a calling, a role where compassion and skill met to create healing spaces. Yet even in those early days, I began noticing patterns—certain patients waited longer for care, others faced dismissive attitudes or judgment based on their appearance, language, or socioeconomic status. At first, I thought these were isolated incidents. Over time, I realized they were symptoms of deeply embedded systemic inequities.
Becoming a parent added another layer to my perspective. Parenthood and life partnerhood changed me in ways I wasn’t prepared for, but somehow was ready for. It wasn’t just the physical and emotional demands of raising a child while working full-time as a nurse; it was the sharp awareness of how privilege and social structures shape outcomes. I began to see my patients differently—not just as individuals in need of care, but as someone's child, parent, or loved one. I imagined my own child in their place, and the urgency of fighting for equity in healthcare became even more personal.
Balancing activism with motherhood and a demanding nursing career hasn’t been easy. There have been sleepless nights—not just from caring for a sick child or managing shift work, but from the weight of witnessing injustice day after day. There have been moments when I’ve felt spread too thin, as though I were failing in every role. But there have also been moments of clarity and triumph: organizing a successful advocacy campaign, seeing a policy change come to life, or having my child ask thoughtful questions about fairness and kindness after overhearing one of my work calls.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is that activism doesn’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes it’s in the small moments: advocating for a patient who isn’t being heard, questioning an unjust policy in a team meeting, or simply holding space for a colleague who is struggling. These micro-level acts of resistance and care are just as vital as large-scale systemic change.
Another lesson has been learning to set boundaries. In the early years, I often felt guilty stepping away from advocacy work to focus on my family or my own well-being. But burnout helps no one. I've learned that sustainability in activism requires moments of rest and renewal. It also means modeling balance for the next generation of nurses and activists.
My child has grown up watching me navigate these dual identities—as a nurse and as a social justice advocate. They’ve seen me come home from hard shifts, heard me vent about systemic barriers, but they've also seen me celebrate the small victories. I hope that by witnessing this, they’re learning that care work—whether in healthcare, in families, or in activism—is valuable and powerful.
Looking back, I realize how much I’ve changed in 17 years. I am less naive, more pragmatic, but also more deeply committed to the core values that brought me into nursing in the first place: compassion, justice, and the belief that healthcare is a human right. I’ve also learned to accept that change is slow and often frustrating, but every small step matters.
To other working mothers who are also nurses and activists: your work is seen, your exhaustion is valid, and your contributions are immeasurable. Whether you’re advocating in boardrooms, at the bedside, or around your kitchen table, you are making a difference.
Seventeen years in, I am still here—a little more tired, perhaps, but also more resolute. The work continues, and so do I.
Love,
Michelle D.
