On Being Chosen Instead of Assigned
It started with an awakening.
Not the dramatic kind. More like a quiet pause. A slow realization that I had become stagnant — not out of failure, but out of routine. I knew how to be a nurse. I had studied for it, trained for it, survived it. But when I really sat with myself, I wondered: Is that all I know?
Is this what I really want?
I remembered a different version of myself. I used to write. I used to teach. I had a social life. I had creative stamina. So when I felt the edges of burnout closing in, writing felt too heavy to pick up again. Friendships were scattered across time zones and conflicting schedules.
But teaching? That clicked.
I had done it before, and I enjoyed it. And more importantly, I could do something about it now.
So I enrolled in a TEFL course at the University of Houston. Quietly. Strategically. As a backup plan, if I’m being honest. If things in nursing continued to spiral (and they were), I wanted an exit strategy that wouldn’t feel like a complete leap into the void.
I didn’t expect to love it this much.
Teaching in the In-Between
These days, I still work full-time as a night shift nurse. Which means teaching is squeezed into the small pockets of time between sleep and survival.
It’s hard, and I won’t sugarcoat it. My daily routines require military-grade scheduling. Lesson planning replaces gaming. Rest is fragmented. Coffee is constant. But I’ve never once felt depleted after a class.
Why? Because teaching doesn’t take from me the way nursing does.
In nursing, I’m tasked with keeping people alive — even if they treat me like I’m invisible. Or worse, like shit, which is sadly becoming the norm. There are no boundaries, no say in the matter. It’s my job to keep going, no matter how I’m spoken to, no matter how parasitic the system is.
But teaching? Teaching is reciprocal.
When I prepare lessons in Medical English, my students meet me there. They participate. They ask questions. They say thank you — genuinely. Their growth is visible. Their improvement is the return on my investment. It’s a give-and-take, not an extraction.
One of my students wrote:
“I once wanted to keep Pamela as my own secret, but I realized that anyone who genuinely needs clinical English deserves to learn from her. I am deeply grateful to the friend who introduced me to Pamela, and I feel sincere appreciation toward Pamela after every lesson. If I am able to adapt to hospital life and grow as a nurse, it will be because Pamela believed in me and guided me step by step. Her class didn’t just teach English—it supported me when I needed it most. I wholeheartedly recommend Pamela to any nurse who wants to survive, grow, and thrive in a clinical environment.”
I still tear up when I read that. It’s been years since I’ve felt truly appreciated in not just what I do, but for the thought and energy I pour into other people.
When Appreciation Feels Unfamiliar
A few weeks ago, I posted that review on Instagram. I remember feeling proud… and strangely uncomfortable at the same time. The praise felt oversized. Too… generous.
Tonight, it happened again.
During a lesson, I told one of my students that I am merely a resource person. That at the end of the day, she controls her nursing practice. The phrases, frameworks, and communication tools I teach are there to support her, but I won’t be standing beside her in a hospital room telling her what to say.
She paused and said, “Oh, how I wish you were. I would feel better.”
I laughed. I said something practical. But internally, something shifted.
Later, she told me that once she gets her green card and starts working in New York, she and her friend want to visit me in Texas.
And instead of matching her excitement, I froze.
Not because I wasn’t happy.
But because a wave of impostor syndrome hit me so suddenly, I didn’t know where to place it.
I know she’s praising me, and I know she’s thankful for how I helped her improve her English. But somehow, the praise landed differently.
Why do you look up to me like that?
Am I really that good?
RN# 012589 vs Medical English Specialist
In the hospital, I am a function. A role. A license number. An Employee ID#.
In teaching, I’m more than a tentacle in a parasitic system. My Preply profile says I’m a Medical English Specialist, and I have the much-coveted Super Tutor Badge.
In teaching, I am a person whose presence matters
And maybe that’s why opening morning slots didn’t feel like a sacrifice, even on work nights. Even for $8 an hour.
From a business perspective, it probably makes no sense. I mean, why would you sacrifice sleep for 8 dollars an hour when you’re a specialist with 14 years of clinical experience? How is this going to fund the future you’re building?
But when my students asked if I could open more time so they could study with me, my instinct wasn’t resentment.
It was gratitude.
They want to learn with me.
Not because they have to. Not because I’m assigned to them.
But because they believe I can help.
And in those moments, I forget about business or strategy. I forget that this is technically income toward a plan.
Because while teaching, I am not calculating. I am not pulled in multiple directions, expected to perform a miracle only Jesus can. I am not asked to do more with the little I was given.
In teaching, I am present.
A Different Kind of Exhaustion
After years of night shifts, I’ve become religious about sleep. It’s sacred. Non-negotiable.
So imagine my surprise when I started willingly shaving off an hour or two just to squeeze in a class after a 12-hour shift. I wouldn’t do that for a meeting. I wouldn’t do it for overtime. But somehow, I’ll do it for teaching.
Not because I’m a martyr. Hell, I could be the most selfish bitch you’ll meet.
But because I’m not resentful.
That’s the difference between something that drains you and something that feeds you — even when you’re tired.
Maybe this chapter doesn’t need to mean anything bigger yet. Teaching started as an exit strategy, but somewhere along the way it became evidence that I can still enjoy being good at something. I can still learn. I can still be useful without feeling used.
That may be why my students’ appreciation catches me off guard. At the hospital, being needed is part of the job. Teaching has introduced me to something I’m much less familiar with: being chosen.
When they ask for more time with me, I feel trusted. When they thank me, I feel seen. I’m still figuring out how to receive either of those things without immediately questioning whether I deserve them.
For now, I think that’s enough.
If I had to give this chapter a name, I’d still call it Rialto, after the bridge in Venice. It’s practical and beautiful at the same time, which feels fitting. I don’t know exactly where this is leading yet, but I like the fact that I’m moving again.