My First Two Weeks: A Trial by Fire

It was only two weeks into my new role in adolescent psychiatric nursing, and I walked in expecting a day like any other—routine, predictable, perhaps with a few challenges. But the reality of that shift was anything but.

Things were just settling down when I walked into the nursing office to receive my report. There had been some commotion earlier, some shenanigans that were now calming down. But the calm didn’t last long. No sooner had we sat down than a loud bang echoed through the building, followed by screams that cut through the air like a knife.

The radio crackled to life, and the only word that came through was one I’ll never forget: “Help.”

Without thinking, we jumped up, running toward the sound of the chaos. When we reached the main level, the scene was already unfolding. Children were being ushered inside, their faces a mix of fear and confusion. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a shattered window—glass scattered across the floor. Out on the grass, a chair lay in pieces, and there was blood. I turned to see one of the boys standing there. He couldn’t have been older than 16, but his arms were covered in tattoos, and his face bore the weathered look of someone who had seen more than his fair share of hardship.

Tears streamed down his face, and my heart sank. This was no ordinary day. The sirens in the distance grew louder, and within moments, emergency responders arrived, ready to take control of the situation. It was the first major crisis I’d encountered in this new role, and I was still trying to process the scene before me.

I told myself it wasn’t going to be the norm, that this was just one of those unfortunate events that happens occasionally in this line of work. But in that moment, I was a nurse—not a leader, not someone with answers, just a nurse who was two weeks into a job that carried a weight of responsibility I had not yet learned how to bear.

For the rest of the shift, I was paralyzed. Petrified. I had no idea what was coming next, but I stayed on high alert, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The rest of the night passed in eerie silence. No more incidents, no more chaos. Just a palpable tension that hung in the air, making every small sound feel like the precursor to something else.

When I finally left at the end of the shift, I was exhausted. Physically and emotionally drained. I couldn’t help but question whether I was truly prepared for the demands of this job. The truth is, I wasn’t. I had walked in with an idea of what my work would entail, but nothing could have prepared me for the unpredictability, the raw emotions, and the urgency that come with caring for these young individuals.

But that shift where I navigated my first crisis of this role, taught me something invaluable: in this line of work, there is no time to be paralyzed by fear or doubt. You show up. You do your job. You put one foot in front of the other, even when you’re not sure what’s next. You lead, not with authority, but with calm and care.

That night wasn’t the exception; it was the norm. The incidents only grew more intense, the chaos more overwhelming, and the stakes higher. But with each challenge, I pushed on. I learned to face each moment with the same determination, even as the demands increased. The fear never fully left, but neither did my resolve. In this line of work, there’s no room for hesitation—only the drive to keep moving forward, no matter how difficult the journey may become.