Zombie, a song you called a love letter to nurses. It resonated more deeply than you might imagine.
Most people know that nursing is hard work, but unless you are a nurse, it’s difficult to fully understand the weight that comes with it. Nurses are not just administering medications or charting care, we are holding space for people in moments of pain, fear, and vulnerability. We advocate, we mediate, we grieve, we hope, and we do it all while working under-resourced and exhausted.
In my current role, I spend a lot of time supporting nurses by leading education sessions, helping teams navigate complex and almost impossible regulations, problem-solving during crises, and mentoring. I see behind the scenes: missed breaks, difficult ethical decisions, family conflicts, the heartbreak of losing someone they’ve cared for over months or years, the team member who hasn’t had a weekend off in months, the nurse who’s afraid to speak up because they’re worried it will cost their job or license.
I see and help work through their burnout. I know how much they give. I also know how often they feel unseen—especially when their compassion and competence are taken for granted. I’ve seen brilliant, dedicated nurses begin to question themselves, not because they’re doing anything wrong, but because the system makes it hard to feel like they’re doing enough. I witness the quiet perseverance of simply showing up, day after day.
Zombie
Zombie gave voice to something so many nurses feel but rarely say out loud. It captured the quiet detachment that can creep in after months or years of unrelenting demands; even the most compassionate nurse can reach that point, not because they don’t care, but because caring nonstop, without reprieve, is unsustainable. It means they’ve been carrying more than they were ever meant to, for longer than they should have had to. You didn’t romanticize nursing or lean on the worn-out “healthcare heroes” slogan. And, while there’s value in that slogan, it can also feel one-dimensional. It leaves no room for the complexity of our experiences—the fatigue, the grief, the quiet questioning of “Can I keep doing this?” You didn’t pretend that being a nurse is always noble or inspiring or energizing.
But beneath that fatigue, there is still heart. In a world that often overlooks the emotional toll this work takes, Zombie says, “I see you.”
And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.
The Power of Being Seen
You reminded us that we’re still human. That burnout doesn’t mean failure. That showing up while tired, while scared, while stretched thin, is its own kind of courage. You didn’t put us on a pedestal; we’re too tired for that anyway. That matters. Especially when the people doing the most to care for others are struggling to care for themselves. Zombie gave nurses something rare: the chance to be understood, without being pitied or idealized. It said, “I know this isn’t easy, and I still see the beauty in what you do.”
That kind of empathy doesn’t just matter—it’s powerful.
Why We Keep Going
We keep going because there is still joy in this work. Even on the hardest days, there are moments that bring meaning. A resident successfully rehabbing after a knee replacement. A wound that finally heals. A family member who says “thank you”. The quiet satisfaction of knowing that you were the one who noticed a change that prevented something worse. Knowing your work matters. Yes, we get tired. Yes, we sometimes feel like zombies. But we also laugh. We celebrate milestones. We build relationships that last for years. We make a difference, even when no one is watching. And for most of us, that’s why we stay.
A Love Letter Back
Thank you for using your voice to amplify ours. Thank you for showing up with truth and compassion. Thank you for writing a song that sits with us in our weariness and reminds us that we’re not invisible.
This is a love letter back to you.
With gratitude,
Kari
Photo by Kate Macate on Unsplash