I sat on a cylindrical stool, eyes bleary from the early hour. Navy scrubs freshly pressed, my nursing school patch tacked to my left shoulder. Would anyone notice I used hot glue and whipstitches?
I remember the sound my clipboard made as I attached a fresh piece of paper. The whoosh was faint and mimicked the flip-flap of wings attached to butterflies whirring around in my belly. I waited eagerly for my nurse preceptor. It was my first day as a clinical nursing student—not my first day taking care of people; I worked as a clinical tech for years at this point. But I would be giving real medicine, administering injections, and doing tasks only a supervised nursing student could do.
I looked at my watch: 7:15 a.m. Glancing around at my fellow nursing students, they were huddled with their respective teachers. “Maybe mine is stuck in traffic,” I thought to myself.
A few minutes later, she hurriedly sat down in front of me. She looked at me, her weathered face a canvas of annoyance. She shook her long ponytail out of her face and said, “You the nursing student?”
I’ll never forget her eyes. Dark and hollow, with circles underneath to match. Without missing a beat, she said, “Run. Run through the doors and don’t look back.”
I’m not sure who coined the phrase, “nurses eat their young.” It seems to be a common understanding though, amongst those of us who have chosen this profession. It is perhaps even an expectation, an assumption we nurselings have tucked away into the pockets of our scrubs; an inevitability we will experience at some point in our career.
Does this mean then, we will mature into full-grown nurses and perpetuate the cycle? That we will “do unto others what was done to us?” It would appear so, or else said cycle would have expired long ago, lost in the dregs of other outdated items such as white uniforms and paper charting.
I wasn’t far into my career when I encountered such a young-eater. Eager to learn from this seasoned nurse, she chewed me up and spit me out, often in front of patients, their families, and other nurses. She was adored by management and physicians, and I was the new kid on the block. I was told on more than one occasion, often accompanied by a shrug of the shoulder, “that’s just how she is.” I tried my best to win her over, doing whatever I could to prove my knowledge and worth. Hint—it never worked. I decided then and there I would be different. I would be kind.
Fast forward fifteen years, and I ended up back at the same hospital, this time in a different role and in a different department. A small team of five, I was once again thirsty to learn from the nurse practitioners I worked with.
Now considered a seasoned nurse myself, I naively thought I could no longer be a menu item. All was well for the first eight-ish months or so. And then I enrolled in grad school. We were in the throes of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I wanted desperately to know how to do this unique work with more skill. I chose to pursue a specialized degree in our niche field instead of the traditional MSN or PNP. This is when I noticed the shift; only this time, it was behind closed doors, a covert dining experience if you will.
One afternoon I overheard a negative conversation about myself, followed by laughter. It felt like junior high all over again. I was excluded from patient care, and every ounce of autonomy was removed from my role. I subsequently had to shrink myself down to a smaller version of who I was to suit their comfort levels.
And so, after having had enough of hospital heartbreak, I completed my degree, sold my home, and moved across the country to work for a small non-profit near the eastern coast. Little did I know, this would be the place I would encounter the person who would shatter my spirit in such a way, I would need an intensive psychiatric program to recover.
The added twist in this instance was, she was my direct supervisor. Having no knowledge or experience in this specialized field, she wielded her managerial power like a steak knife. For reasons unbeknownst to me (though I have my theories), her insatiable appetite for my misery was so evident, other staff members raised concerns to HR on my behalf.
On a particular day, she attempted to pull me away from a seriously ill child to answer phones so the entire office staff could attend a luncheon (until the physician intervened). She interrupted my work, ordering me to “clean out closets” and “tidy up the nurse’s office,” all while experiencing staffing shortages and struggling to complete tasks to maintain compliance. (Never mind our field has one of the highest burnout rates in nursing.) She was aggressive on more than one occasion, using her voice as well as her body language to intimidate. I was given more on-call days and up to twice as many patient assignments. When I requested balance in these areas, I was met with the response, “We won’t be making changes at this time.”
I worked with this person for four months and spoke with the HR representative three times formally. I finally requested a meeting with the executive director (a nurse) for assistance, and it was made apparent to me I was a nuisance and an inconvenience. On the day of our meeting, before I had the chance to ask for said help, I was handed a separation letter. “We clearly can’t make you happy,” she said.
“Nurses eat their young.”
There’s another word for this behavior: bullying. Perhaps even accepted bullying as it pertains to the health care profession. In the state where I now live, there is no legal recourse unless one can prove cause against race, gender, disability, religion, or sexual orientation. We must have stricter laws against harassment and bullying in the workplace.
Looking back on my interview with the small non-profit, I recall the executive director specifically saying to me, “We don’t eat our young here.” It was refreshing and a breath of fresh air, having just come away from such an experience. However, I can’t help but wonder if I should have seen that statement for the red flag it was. Why else would an organization feel the need to say out loud what should be an unspoken rule of humanity?
I, of course, have to own my role in each of these instances. I allowed these behaviors to go on for far too long. I chalked it up to patient loyalty and commitment to my calling. Practically speaking, opportunities in niche nursing fields do not necessarily abound.
As a collective, nursing-kind as a whole must also own its accountability. For this concept began with a hungry someone somewhere and has been passed down throughout generations of subsequent snackers.
A recently published study projects one-fifth of the nursing population will leave the profession by 2027 (NCSBN). One-fifth, in the next three years. It may not seem like much. However, when you factor in the number of nurses who left (or died) during the pandemic, along with the fact this is a chronically understaffed profession, this is a very scary statistic. There are undoubtedly numerous reasons for the upcoming exodus. Might I offer though: when the system fails us, and when management is lacking, we could be the reasons we stay and keep going.
Change begins with us. I wonder what would happen if we all extended to one another the care and compassion we give our patients?
Earlier this week, I interviewed a newish nurse looking to leave the big hospital system. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of the phrase ‘nurses eat their young,’” she said. I smiled and nodded in response. “I know what you mean,” I replied.
I hope that I and you, dear reader, will never again allow ourselves to be fodder for anyone looking for an easy meal. Heaven forbid we encounter such a person, may we have the courage to take the advice of my first nurse preceptor: run through the doors and don’t look back.
Amanda Dean is a palliative care nurse.
