I grew up playing nurse

Tenderness born from chaos, carried like a scar which refuses to fade.

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I grew up playing nurse. It became who I was as a person. Being the youngest with two older brothers, I was often being called on for assistance—a scraped knee, a bloodied elbow, a sore shoulder. My brothers were always getting into some sort of trouble and it was to me the duty landed on to help them where I could, even in the moments it felt like my help was the last thing they wanted.

Being young boys, I assume it was out of immaturity, they had it out for each other. Quite a lot. It would always start the same way: they would ask me to ‘referee’ their fights and when I would protest, claiming I knew the ending already, they’d laugh and reassure me they’re ‘just messing around.’ I learnt very quickly how deceptive my brothers were. Just how things began the same, they ended the same, too. I’d be crying out for my mum while my brothers practically choked each other to death. Once she came and broke them apart, they both gave me the same look they had given each other moments ago. That, you’re dead to me, kind of look. It’s okay. I quickly adjusted to the anger they felt. I knew it wasn’t entirely at me (honestly, it may have been at themselves). Maybe I was just the nearest target aside from the one they just tried to kill. But no matter, after their fights, I would be scavenging for bandaids and wash cloths to help patch them both up. I’d mop up the messes they left behind, clumsily tending to the bruises and gashes, the hot red marks around their necks. I was nine. They were thirteen.

There were countless times where guilt crept in, and I found myself thinking they’re only able to fight each other again the next day because I help them do it. I still kept mending their bruises either way. Out of love. Out of instinct. A little out of fear. I find it slightly emotional to imagine 9 year old me cleaning blood off my 13 year old brothers, tsk-ing and shaking my head at them like a tired mother. Hands too small to hold all the pieces. To hold my people together. A little ironic that these many years later, I am still (in some form) that same kid.

The tools have changed, the stakes have raised, and the wounds are more often invisible—and also self-inflicted. Though the core of what I do remains the same. To heal, to mend, to bring whatever relief I can possibly manage in a world that tries so hard to break it.

But here’s the part that always catches in my throat: I never really knew how to tend to my own wounds. I still don’t. I was so busy taping everyone else back together that I never noticed when I began to bleed, too. I never noticed the drip. It has taken me a long time to learn that caretaking doesn’t mean abandoning yourself. That being strong for others doesn’t necessarily mean you never get to fall apart. That the 9 year old who patched up everyone else deserved that same gentleness, softness, and care. She still does.

Childhood ‘doctor’ was about bandaids and physical mending. Adult life demands harder fixes—emotional scars, fractured relationships, the hemorrhaging pain of yesterday.

So now, I try to do for myself what I always did—and still do—for others. I sit with my sadness instead of rushing past it. I name my hurt instead of hiding it. I let myself rest, even when I have so much more to do. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unfamiliar. It’s honestly unbearable at times. But it’s healing and it’s necessary.

The truth is that being someone who heals, someone who holds space for others, is only sustainable if you learn to hold space for yourself, too.

Maybe that’s what growing up truly is. Not losing that tenderness you held, but learning how to aim it inward. Learning how to hold your own hand while you keep reaching out to others.

Maybe we’re all just grown up kids playing doctor, trying to fix what hurts us. Trying to bring a little hope where it’s needed most. And maybe that’s enough.

Unashamedly yours,

K x