I hated her. And I love her for making me hate her.
When I graduated from my nursing program, it hadn’t fully hit me yet. I knew I had done it. I knew I had survived the exams, the clinicals, the care plans, the stress, the sleepless nights, and all the moments where I questioned if I was even capable of becoming a nurse.
Out of all my instructors, there is one I will always feel the most heartfelt gratitude for because without her wisdom and guidance, I can confidently say I would not be the nurse I am today.
But I cannot express strongly enough how much I hated this woman while I was in the trenches of that program.
She was the most difficult teacher I had, and we knocked our heads together in disagreement constantly. There were days—weeks—when I wished I were at a different school. Somewhere with an easier program. Somewhere, anywhere, she was not.
One time she docked me points because my fingernails were too long, and I was so upset and petty over it that I got out a ruler, measured my nails, took a picture, and sent it to her alongside the student handbook policy stating I was within the limits.
And I got that point back.
That was the kind of relationship we had.
But now, I’m able to look back and feel so incredibly grateful to have had her as one of my instructors. She broke me down into a million tiny pieces, but I see now that it had to happen so I could be rebuilt—piece by piece—into something completely new.
I am so thankful to have been shaped by her excellence, and I hope to become even a fraction of the nurse she is today.