Nurse Coaching was never on my radar. In fact, I never imagined working anywhere but in a hospital. That all changed in January 2021, when my entire life shifted in an instant.
I gave birth to my first daughter, Ryder, in an emergency delivery—10 weeks early—due to severe preeclampsia, seizures (which affect only about 3% of preeclampsia cases), and HELLP syndrome. I spent five days in the hospital as my blood pressure remained dangerously high, but I insisted on going home. My doctor agreed, adjusting my medications because I was a nurse and could monitor myself.
Ryder remained in the NICU for 30 days. When she finally came home, it was a joyful time—but something inside me didn’t feel right. I was a new mom, working night shifts, and trying to rest when I could. But I was overwhelmed with fatigue, physical pain, shortness of breath, and episodes of cardiac arrhythmias. No matter how often I visited the ER, I was told the same thing: “You’re a new mom. Get some rest. Your labs are normal. It’s probably postpartum.”
But I knew something was wrong.
In June 2021, after yet another hospital stay, a doctor finally walked into my room and changed everything. He sat on the edge of my bed and said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” At first, I was frustrated—had he even read my chart? But how he asked was different. He wasn’t interested in just the lab results or test reports. He wanted me to explain what I was feeling in my body.
I broke down in tears. I told him how I was beginning to feel crazy. That maybe the other doctors were right, and I just couldn’t handle motherhood. He shook his head and said, “I believe you.” Then he asked if I had a family history of autoimmune disease. I did—diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis.
He looked at me and said, “Give me a couple of days. I think I can figure this out.”
On July 5th, after watching fireworks from my hospital room the night before, that same doctor came in with his team and said, “I have good news and bad news. The good news? I know what’s wrong. The bad news? You have Lupus.”
At first, it didn’t register. My nurse brain could barely recall what I’d learned about Lupus beyond the textbook butterfly rash. But after an IV dose of the right medication, I felt like a new person—up, moving, crying tears of relief. I finally had an answer. I wasn’t crazy.
I told my husband the news and remember saying, “He could’ve told me I had cancer, and I still would’ve been happy—because now I know.”
