Still I Care: A reflection by Kamilah Joseph, RN
February 20, 2026
Written By: Kamilah Joseph, RN, Clinical Nurse Educator
As a Black woman and a registered nurse of twenty years, my work has been rooted in care, compassion, and presence. This piece is a reflection of my lived experience in health care, holding space for others while navigating the realities of racism, resilience, and belonging. It speaks to the quiet strength, solidarity, and humanity that Black health care workers carry every day.
Still I Care
I have been a nurse for twenty years,
my hands trained in skill,
my heart trained in hope.
I walk into rooms where fear lives loudly,
where pain has no filter,
and I arrive anyway
steady, prepared, open.
I am a Black woman in health care.
That means I carry more than my stethoscope.
I carry assumptions before I speak,
scrutiny before I act,
and sometimes hatred that has nothing to do with me
yet lands squarely on my chest.
There are days
when racism shows itself plainly,
and days when it hides behind tone,
behind doubt,
behind the questioning of my competence
long after I have proven it.
These encounters wear on the heart.
They drain the drive.
They make me pause and ask
why I chose a profession
that takes so much
while asking me to give endlessly.
I am often conflicted
with the energy I pour out
and the energy that is taken from me
simply because caring is my job,
and resilience is expected to come free.
Still, I come from a place of acceptance.
Still, I choose love.
Still, I show up.
I have seen the impact of my care
in the easing of a breath,
in the softening of panic,
in the trust built between strangers
meeting at their lowest point.
To be allowed into that space
is a gift.
There is something sacred in the way
Black people care
how we hold others while carrying our own weight,
how we offer calm while navigating obstacles
placed before us daily.
It is strength born of survival,
tenderness sharpened by truth.
I am nourished by the quiet solidarity
of fellow Black health care workers
the shoulders offered without explanation,
the whispered encouragement in hallways,
the shared exhale after a long shift.
The nods that say
I see you.The smiles that say you are not alone.
These moments do not shout.
They settle deep.
They are felt in the soul.
And on the days I question everything,
I remember this:
I am still here.
I am still capable of care.
I am still worthy of rest.
And my presence,
my excellence,
my compassion,
my endurance,
is not accidental.
It is power.