A surgeon, slick with his Ivy League credentials, once screamed at me in the hall for questioning his order. An hour later, I was the one holding that same patient’s hand as her heart gave out.

When the family burst in, sobbing, who did they grab onto? Not the doctor. Me.”

My name is Martha. I’m 72 years old, and my feet are shot. That’s what happens when you’re a nurse for nearly 50 years.

I don’t have a fancy diploma hanging in a big office. No one ever asked me to give a TED Talk. But I’ve held the hands of strangers while their world fell apart. And I can tell you a secret: not one of them ever asked me what college I went to.

They just wanted to know if their daddy would make it.

I remember a “Career Day” at the local high school a few years back. The auditorium was full of suits. Lawyers. Bankers. A tech guy with a fancy slideshow.

Then there was me. I walked up in my worn-out white scrubs and comfortable shoes, my ID badge still clipped to my pocket.

When it was my turn, I told those kids, “I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to tell you what it’s like to be the only person in a room at 3 a.m. when a monitor starts to scream. I’m here to tell you about holding a phone to a dying man’s ear so his son, stuck states away, can say goodbye.

“And I’m here to tell you about the miracles. Not the flashy ones. I’m talking about the miracle of seeing a grandmother, who we all thought was gone, sit up and ask for a cup of water. That’s my job. It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.”

The kids leaned in. They started asking real questions. “Do you get scared?” “Do people… you know… die on you?” “Do you cry?”

(Yes. Yes. And Lord, yes.)

After, a quiet girl came up to me. She whispered, “My mom cleans houses. My friends’ parents are all doctors and lawyers. They act like what she does is nothing.”

I knelt down, even though my knees complained, and told her, “Sweetheart, your mom is taking care of families. Taking care of people is never ‘nothing.’ It’s the most important job there is. It’s everything.”

That’s what our culture gets wrong. We’ve created a world where we worship the six-figure salary and the corner office. We push kids into $100,000 of college debt to chase a title.

But when your child spikes a 104-degree fever, or when the power goes out in a blizzard, or when your grandfather falls… it’s not the investment banker who saves you.

It’s the people in the trenches. The nurses. The caregivers. The electricians. The janitors who keep the germs at bay. We are the ones who show up in the messy, terrifying moments when a fancy résumé means absolutely nothing, and a steady, compassionate hand means everything.

Last winter, I got a letter. It was from one of the boys who had been at that career day.

He wrote, “Mrs. Martha, I’m in my second year of nursing school now. I’m from the ‘wrong side of the tracks.’ I always thought I wasn’t smart enough for college. But you showed me that being present, and being kind… that’s its own kind of smart. And I’m going to be the kind of nurse you are.”

I sat at my kitchen table with that letter and just cried. Because that’s it. That’s the whole point.

So here’s my plea to you: The next time you meet a teenager, don’t just ask, “Where are you going to college?”

Ask them, “Who do you want to help?”

And if they say, “I want to be a plumber,” or “I want to take care of old folks,” or “I want to be a nurse,” don’t just nod. You look them in the eye and you tell them you’re proud. Tell them the world needs them.
Because it does. And when the night is long and you’re scared, you’ll be so glad someone like them decided to show up