The quiet shift

Chapter One: The Quiet Between Beeps

The kind of quiet that settled there didn’t feel gentle. It buzzed in the corners, in the fluorescent lights, in the way the air never really moved. I memorized every drawer, every file, every step it took to complete a round. Routine made it feel like I was in control but I never really was.

Every time I walked into a room, I was waiting for something to go wrong. It was constant. Even when things were calm, I imagined them unraveling. A sudden drop in vitals. A missed dose. A patient who wouldn’t respond. I didn’t tell anyone how loud those thoughts were. I just kept moving, kept doing what needed to be done. On the outside, I looked steady. On the inside, I was always bracing.

The silence got to me. The patients rarely spoke much, and when they did, it was soft, fragile. Like the whole room was whispering, even when no one said a thing. Sometimes, when I had a moment alone, I’d stand still and try to breathe but the air felt heavy. Not from any one thing. Just the accumulation of everything.

I started to feel like I was disappearing into the quiet. Into the anxiety. Into the walls of that ward.

And then one day, something small and sharp stirred inside me.

A whisper I hadn’t let myself hear before;

You don’t have to stay.

You’re allowed to leave.

You’re allowed to choose something new.

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Chapter Two: The Breath Between

Before I resigned, I cried often. Not at work, never where anyone could see but in the quiet moments after my shift, when I finally let the mask slip. I cried because I was exhausted. I cried because I was scared.

Mostly, I cried because I didn’t know what would become of me if I left.

For a whole year, I held onto nursing like it was the only path I was allowed to walk. Not because I loved it but because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Especially not my parents. They were proud. And to them, nursing meant security, respect, purpose. To walk away felt like failure.

But deep down, I had always wanted something else. Something softer. Something that felt more like me.

When I finally resigned, it didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like breaking something sacred. I wondered if I was making the wrong decision, If I’d wasted time. If I’d regret it. For days, the fear clung to me like fog. But slowly, as the days passed, something changed.

I started to feel light again. Not in a dramatic way but in small, honest moments. Breathing deeper. Smiling without forcing it. Waking up without that knot in my chest. I had chosen something for myself and in doing so, I found a happiness I thought I’d buried for good.

I wasn’t lost. I was just beginning.

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Chapter Three: The First Yes

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that used to make me feel anxious. But today, it felt different like a blank page instead of an empty room.

I sat with my laptop open, cursor blinking on a search bar.

Universities offering Counselling Psychology in Kenya.

It felt almost too fragile to type like naming it might make it real.

But I typed it anyway.

My chest was tight, my hands slightly cold. I kept thinking of all the times I’d wondered about this path but pushed it away. What if it’s too late? What if I fail? The questions hadn’t left but now they were quieter. They weren’t stopping me this time.

As I scrolled through schools, read course outlines, and imagined what life could look like on this new path, something inside me softened. It didn’t feel like running away. It felt like finally turning toward something I’d loved all along.

I found a program that spoke to me simple, direct, kind.

It wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks. Just me, in that quiet room, breathing deeper than I had in months.

I filled out the form. I clicked “submit.”

And just like that, I said yes to myself.

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Chapter Four: The In-Between

There’s something strange about peace when you’ve lived in survival for so long. It doesn’t arrive with loud celebration it slips in softly, so quietly you almost miss it.

After I sent the application, life didn’t change overnight. But I did.

The pressure that had lived in my chest for months maybe longer began to ease. Not disappear, not completely. But it wasn’t pressing down the same way. I could breathe again, and that felt like enough.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t wake up dreading the day ahead. I didn’t have to brace myself for the ward, for the quiet rooms, for the unspoken fear of not being enough. I could just exist.

I spent more time outside. Not doing anything special just walking, noticing the way the light moved through the leaves. Letting my shoulders fall away from my ears. Letting the silence be something healing instead of haunting.

I still had moments of doubt moments where I wondered if I’d made the right choice. But even in those moments, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Not the loud, shouting kind. The quiet kind. The kind that hums gently in the background. The kind that waits for you to notice it and believe it.

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Chapter Five: Making Room for Joy

With school still a few weeks away, I found myself in unfamiliar territory, time that wasn’t weighed down by survival.

For the first time in years, I could ask myself what I wanted to do not just what I needed to get through.

And so I started dreaming in little ways.

I pictured my hands dusted in flour, the kitchen warm with the scent of something homemade. I thought about baking not to impress anyone, but just to nourish and create. I imagined making candles, filling the room with lavender and vanilla and soft light. Crafting something beautiful from something simple.

My guitar, long neglected, caught my eye again. The thought of pressing my fingers to the strings and feeling sound move through me didn’t feel so distant anymore. Maybe I’d play just for me. Maybe I’d share. Maybe both.

Content creation whispered to me too not as a job, not yet but as an honest way to tell stories. To speak into spaces where people feel unseen. I didn’t know exactly what I’d create, only that I wanted to try.

And then there were the short courses. Things I’d put off for years. Psychology, yes. But also writing, creative expression. I wanted to learn, to grow, not because I had to, but because I finally wanted to.

This wasn’t just free time. It was sacred time. A soft rebuilding.

I was still in between chapters, but for once, I wasn’t rushing to turn the page.

I was learning how to be still and to let joy stretch its arms across my life

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Chapter Six: A Letter to Her

To the girl who kept going, even when she didn’t know why,

I see you.

I see the way you showed up, every single day, even when your heart was heavy and your smile felt like a costume. I remember how you’d stand in the middle of that ward, trying to hold it all together while feeling like you were quietly falling apart.

You were scared, and still you gave.

You were anxious, and still you tried.

You were exhausted, and still you stayed.

You did the best you could with what you had and I am so proud of you for that.

But I’m writing now to tell you...you didn’t have to carry all of it alone.

You were allowed to rest.

You were allowed to want something different.

You were allowed to choose yourself.

I know how long you ignored that small voice inside, the one that dreamed of psychology, of creativity, of joy that didn’t come with a price. You buried it for everyone else. But it never left you.

And now, it’s blossoming.

You are no longer surviving.

You are becoming.

You are allowed to be happy.

Thank you for enduring.

Thank you for dreaming, even in secret.

Because of you, I get to live a life that finally feels like mine.

We’re not all the way there yet. But we’re on the way.

And I promise, we’re not turning back.

Me

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To be continued…