How I Failed as a Nurse
How I Failed as a Nurse: An Honest Letter From the Other Side of the Bedside
The healthcare industry is a complex and cumbersome system to navigate, even for those who work in it. As a healthcare provider, it’s easy to get swept up in the relentless pace of the day. Inpatient providers juggle admissions, discharges, medication reconciliations, critical lab results, constant call lights, and never-ending documentation. Outpatient providers manage test results, medication refills, prior authorizations, drug reps, and patients stacked back-to-back. This is just a snapshot of the first 20 minutes of a provider’s day, with the list growing longer by the minute.
We are trained to rely on algorithms and policies to triage, assess, and treat patients as efficiently as possible. Yet, this speed-driven model leaves little room for patients with complex or rare conditions. From our earliest days in training, we’re taught that patients must comply with their treatment plan or risk worsening their disease. Non-compliant patients are labeled as "frequent flyers," cycling through ERs and hospital beds with the same recurring symptoms. But what if it’s not that simple?
I failed as a nurse because I believed, wholeheartedly, that if patients just followed their care plan to the letter, they wouldn’t keep returning. I rarely stopped to ask, "What is preventing you from adhering to your treatment?" The truth is, none of us in traditional healthcare really have time to ask. But patients desperately need us to. They need us to sit down, make eye contact, and ask, "What are your challenges? What are you afraid to do and why?" Ask genuinely and without judgement, lean in and listen.
I know this because I became that patient.
Living with Sarcoidosis was the most isolating, overwhelming experience of my life. I had faced trauma, loss, and health issues before, but nothing prepared me for the emotional and physical devastation of this chronic illness. I followed every guideline, took every prescribed medication (reluctantly), and still, my body deteriorated. I didn’t fit neatly into the treatment algorithms, and when I didn’t respond to conventional care, I felt discarded, defeated, and unseen. A Failure.
But I wasn’t a failure, and neither are the patients we label as non-compliant. I learned through my own suffering that the healthcare system, in its rush to manage patients, often overlooks the human experience of illness. Fear, financial constraints, side effects, mental exhaustion, and even logistical barriers can prevent patients from fully adhering to care plans. And sometimes, like in my case, the care plan itself is incomplete.
My journey with Sarcoidosis forced me to step outside traditional medicine and advocate for myself in ways I never imagined. I sought functional medicine, embraced a non-toxic lifestyle, and took control of my treatment when the system failed me. It was through this process that I not only found healing but also rediscovered my purpose as a nurse — to bridge the gap for others navigating the unimaginable.
Now, through Drip into Wellness, I strive to be the provider I wish I’d had during my darkest days. One who listens, asks hard questions, and understands that healing isn’t always linear. Because patients aren’t just cases to manage; they’re people with lives just as intricate and fragile as our own.
If my struggle taught me anything, it’s that sometimes failure is the best teacher. And through that failure, I found a way to truly serve.
It’s impossible to fully grasp the daily battles people with chronic diseases endure unless you’ve lived it. As a nurse, I thought I understood — but I didn’t. Not until I experienced the crushing weight of brain fog and relentless fatigue firsthand. I tried to explain it to my doctors, but my words seemed to dissolve in the space between us. They nodded, acknowledged my symptoms, and handed me another prescription. The frustration of feeling unheard was overwhelming and infuriating.
My husband would attend my appointments, confirming that I was constantly exhausted, that no amount of rest replenished my energy. He told them he noticed my cognitive decline, but to my doctors, I appeared fully functional — presenting research, asking detailed questions about my care plan. They couldn’t see the deterioration I felt inside. Friends, family, and strangers didn’t understand either, afterall, I do not “look sick”.
At the same time, I watched my grandfather decline from dementia, and the fear of losing my own mental clarity was paralyzing. Physically, my body rebelled against me: chronic coughing, daily vomiting, shortness of breath, constant sinus drainage, activity intolerance, heat sensitivity (I couldn’t tolerate hot food, beverages, or showers), and the sheer struggle of getting out of bed each morning. Not out of emotional exhaustion, but because my body physically wouldn’t cooperate. My husband would lift me out of bed and place my feet on the floor just to start the day.
My blood work often showed glucose levels between 60-68 — and that was after eating. Normal glucose range 70-100 fasting. I shudder to think how low it dropped overnight. I started eating a bedtime snack, which helped, but despite bringing this to my doctors’ attention, it was never addressed. My care team was focused on the larger issue: controlling my global adenopathy. Everything else, no matter how debilitating, felt like an afterthought.
The most distressing symptom, though, was my vocal cord paralysis. Enlarged lymph nodes in my chest compressed my laryngeal nerve, permanently paralyzing my left vocal cord — a diagnosis confirmed by the Cleveland Clinic. When I speak, the voice that emerges isn’t mine. I don’t recognize it, and the mental toll of losing such a fundamental part of my identity is something I grapple with every single day. I share this to help illustrate some of the mountains these patients climb as part of their daily lives. So, the next time you have a patient that hasn't adhered to their treatment plan pause and ask, "what challenges are you facing?" I know you'll learn from my failure as a nurse because nursing is one of the most altruistic professions around.
Failure doesn’t mean you’re broken — it means there’s more to learn, more to understand, and more ways to connect. My journey taught me that compassion begins where assumptions end. May we all continue to grow, question, and show up for our patients — and for ourselves — with empathy and grace.
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." – Rumi
From one nurse to another,
Lauren McCrossin, BSN-RN | Founder | Wellness Expert + Advocate
Drip into Wellness
PS: If you’ve ever felt like you failed a patient, or like the system failed you — you’re not alone. But failure doesn’t have to be the end of the story. It can be the turning point. Let it fuel your compassion, shape your perspective, and remind you that behind every chart is a human being doing the best they can. As nurses and providers, we hold incredible power — not just to treat, but to truly care. May we never forget the difference. Keep listening. Keep learning. Keep showing up. That’s where healing begins — for them, and for us.
