The Grass Wasn’t Greener. I Was Just Afraid to Rest.

Welcome to Sacred Musings. This is a space where I express my inner most thoughts about my experiences as a human, woman, and nurse. I do hope you enjoy reading my heart’s expression on Mother’s Day ♥️

There’s a post floating around Facebook written by a nurse who said she tried everything: acute care, travel nursing, physician offices, pediatrics, geriatrics, skilled nursing, rehab, home care, school nursing, hospice, psych, forensic nursing. And her conclusion was simple: “They are all the same.” Different buildings.

Different personalities. Different forms of dysfunction. Different leadership problems. Different flavors of burnout. Her final point was that the grass is rarely greener on the other side. And honestly? Part of me agrees. But another part of me doesn’t. Because as I sat with her words, I realized something uncomfortable about myself: I spend a lot of time reminiscing. I revisit old homes. Old jobs. Old relationships. Old versions of myself. I think about what I used to have instead of fully inhabiting what I have now. And the painful part is this: When I had those things, I wasn’t fully present then either. I was anxious. Bracing myself. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Afraid it wouldn’t last.

So instead of resting inside the abundance I created, I emotionally abandoned it before life ever could. That realization hit me hard.

The Loop I Finally See

I’ve spent years creating beautiful lives for myself. Not perfect lives.

But beautiful ones. Warm homes. Comfortable spaces. Meaningful work. Education. Growth. Friendships. Experiences. Safety. And somehow, every time life became stable, my nervous system whispered: “Don’t get too comfortable.” That voice didn’t come from nowhere. It came from childhood. It came from instability. From emotional unpredictability. From the fear of being discarded or uprooted. From learning early that comfort could disappear overnight. So now, as an adult woman, even when I create peace with my own two hands, part of me still prepares for exile. Even happiness can feel dangerous when your body learned survival before it learned safety.

The Truth Is, I Do Quite Well On My Own

That’s the part I can no longer ignore. Every iteration of my adult life outside of my mother’s home has actually been… good. Not easy. Not painless. Not free of mistakes. But good. I have repeatedly created beauty from scratch. I have rebuilt myself over and over again. I know how to make a home. I know how to survive. I know how to nurture people. I know how to work. I know how to learn. I know how to rise. The issue was never my ability to create abundance. The issue was my ability to feel safe enough to keep it.

Nurses Understand This More Than Most

Especially women in nursing. We are trained to anticipate disaster. To think ten steps ahead. To catch problems before they happen. To scan for decline. To prepare for emergencies. To carry emotional labor without collapsing. And after enough years of that, hypervigilance stops being something you do and becomes someone you are. You become uncomfortable with ease. You start associating stillness with danger. You think:

“If I relax, something bad will happen.” So you keep moving. Keep changing jobs. Keep reinventing yourself. Keep searching for greener grass. Not because your life is terrible, but because your nervous system never learned how to trust peace.

Gratitude Is Not Passive

I used to think gratitude was just saying “thank you.” Now I think gratitude is presence. It’s allowing yourself to fully experience what you built without emotionally evacuating it. It’s sitting in your own living room and admitting: “I created this.” It’s looking in the mirror and saying: “I am cute.” “I love myself.” “I love this house.” “I deserve comfort.” Not performatively. Not spiritually bypassing, but intentionally. Because some of us are recovering from lives where comfort felt temporary.

Maybe the Grass Is Greener

Not because another job is magical. Not because another city fixes trauma. Not because another relationship saves you. But because some people know how to plant gardens wherever they go. And I think I’m finally realizing: I’ve been one of those people all along. Even while afraid. Even while grieving.

Even while overwhelmed. I am still abundant, prosperous, and capable of creating beauty again and again. And maybe this season of my life isn’t about finding greener grass. Maybe it’s about finally standing still long enough to enjoy the garden I already grew.

I Built an Internal Garden, Too

And maybe that’s why I disagree, at least partially, with the idea that the grass is never greener. Because sometimes it does become greener. Not because life suddenly becomes easy. Not because workplaces magically heal. Not because people stop disappointing you. But because you change. At 48 years old, I decided that being unhealthy was no longer an option for me. Not casually. Not temporarily. Not as punishment. Decided. And slowly, steadily, I transformed my body and my life. Over 100 pounds gone. Not through self-hatred. Not through humiliation, but through persistence, movement, discipline, grief, love, and eventually…gratitude. I created an internal garden. I cultivated habits that nourished me instead of numbed me. I learned how to move my body because I loved it, not because I was at war with it. I learned that discipline can actually be a form of devotion. And now, when I look at myself, I don’t just see weight loss. I see evidence. Evidence that I can change and rebuild. Evidence that even after heartbreak, exhaustion, regret, fear, aging, burnout, motherhood, nursing, debt, grief, and survival…I still chose myself.

That’s what moves me emotionally now.

Not perfection. Not even success. But the fact that somewhere inside of me, despite everything, there remained a living instinct that whispered: “Grow anyway.”

Gratitude Feels Different Now

I used to think gratitude was forced positivity. Now gratitude feels quieter. It feels like sitting in my home after a workout and realizing: “I’m still here.” “I did this.” “My life is imperfect and still beautiful.” I don’t know exactly where this gusto comes from. Maybe survival, maybe God, maybe the little girl in me who always believed there had to be more than fear. But instead of questioning it now, I sit with it. I honor it. I water it. Because after years of constantly preparing for loss, I’m finally learning that joy does not have to be interrupted just because it exists.

And maybe that is the…

greenest

grass

of

all.