I’m Mary Ellen. Sixty-eight years old. Forty-five of those years spent wearing a nurse’s badge. These days, I’m supposed to be “retired,” but sometimes the local clinic calls when they’re short-staffed, especially on nights like this—when snow piles against the windows and no one wants to drive out.

I don’t mind. Hospitals and clinics have always felt like a second home to me. Strange, I know, to call a place of sickness and grief a home—but when you’ve walked these halls long enough, you realize they aren’t just filled with endings. They’re also filled with beginnings, and everything in between.

When I was young, in what I call the spring of my life, I stood trembling as I delivered my first baby. I can still hear the cry echo in my ears. Summer came, and with it, endless shifts—motorcycle accidents, gunshot wounds, overdoses. I worked through the AIDS crisis, then later the chaos of COVID. Autumn arrived, and I found myself caring for people my own age—friends from church, neighbors, even my high school English teacher.

And now, here I am, in winter. My house is quiet. My husband’s been gone for nine years. My children live three states away, busy with their lives. Sometimes the silence weighs heavier than the night shift.

But tonight, as I sat sipping lukewarm tea in the staff lounge, a young medical student slumped into the chair beside me. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-three. His face looked pale, eyes rimmed red.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispered. “It’s too much death. Too much sadness.”

I studied him for a moment. His hands shook the way mine used to when I first started. I reached over, set my wrinkled fingers gently on his.

“You’re right,” I said. “There is sadness. More than most people ever see. But that’s not the whole story.”

He frowned, waiting.

“I’ve held hands that were taking their last breath,” I continued. “And yes, it hurts. But I’ve also seen the peace that comes in those moments. I’ve witnessed husbands whispering love to wives of fifty years. I’ve watched sons apologize to fathers they hadn’t spoken to in decades. I’ve seen people leave this world surrounded by more love in five minutes than some people know in a lifetime. Tell me—how can that be only sadness?”

He blinked fast, trying to hide tears. I smiled, because I’ve seen that too—young men learning the weight of this work, learning how much heart it takes to stay.

Later, I walked the quiet halls. [This story was written by Things That Make You Think. Elsewhere it’s an unauthorized copy.] The machines hummed their steady rhythm. Snowflakes pressed against the windows, glowing orange under the streetlamps. For a moment, I paused and thought about how every stage of life has its own season.

Spring was busy, restless, full of beginnings.
Summer was loud, heavy with responsibility.
Autumn slowed me down, gave me space to reflect.
And winter—well, winter is still teaching me.

People fear this season. They think it means emptiness, decline, waiting for the end. But I’ve found something different. Winter is the time when the world finally grows quiet enough to hear the heartbeat of what matters most.

Every wrinkle on my face is a chapter I survived. Every scar on my body is proof that I kept going. Every laugh line is evidence that joy came, even after grief.

The young student asked me if it was worth it, this life of endless giving, endless loss.

I told him the truth.
“It’s not about how many people you save. It’s about how much love you leave behind.”

As I stepped outside after my shift, the snow glistened under the dawn. Cold air stung my lungs, but it felt like a blessing. Winter isn’t an ending. It’s a soft glow before the light.

Don’t fear the winter of life. Embrace it. Because in the quietest season, you may finally hear the loudest love.