Covid Memories Tucked Away: Nurses and the Pandemic’s PTSD

Okay, so we all know the pandemic was… well, a thing. But for the folks on the front lines, especially critical care nurses, it was a whole different level of “thing.” I recently chatted with Sarah (not her real name, for privacy reasons, obvi), a critical care nurse who’s seen things most of us can only imagine. And what she shared was pretty eye-opening.

“Covid memories are in a box deep within my brain,” she told me, her voice quiet. “I don’t want to open it. It’s easier to just… not.” That’s a pretty powerful statement, right? It speaks volumes about the emotional toll this whole ordeal took.

She described the sheer volume of patients – the constant influx of critically ill people, fighting for each breath. The agonizing choices that had to be made, the heartbreaking goodbyes over video calls, the sheer exhaustion that seeped into every fiber of her being. She painted a picture of a constant, suffocating pressure, a relentless barrage of suffering that left an indelible mark.

And it wasn’t just the sheer volume of death and suffering. Sarah talked about the fear. The constant, gnawing fear of getting sick herself, of bringing the virus home to her family. The fear of making a mistake, of not being able to do enough for her patients. This pervasive fear wasn’t something that disappeared with the initial wave of the pandemic; it lingered, a dark shadow that followed her even after she clocked out.

But the most striking part of our conversation was her revelation about the widespread impact on her colleagues. “So many people left,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Just… left the unit, left the hospital, even left nursing altogether. It was too much.” She explained that the trauma wasn’t something that faded with time. For many, it manifested as PTSD, leading to crippling anxiety, nightmares, and a profound sense of hopelessness.

The PTSD, she explained, wasn’t just about witnessing death. It was about the relentless pressure, the moral dilemmas, the constant uncertainty, the sheer unrelenting exhaustion. It was about the weight of responsibility, the feeling of constantly failing despite giving everything you had. It was about the feeling of being utterly and completely overwhelmed, day after day, week after week, month after month.

Sarah mentioned that many of her colleagues who left critical care didn’t necessarily leave nursing entirely. Some moved to less demanding areas, seeking a more manageable workload and a less emotionally taxing environment. Others found themselves struggling with the lingering trauma, seeking therapy and support to cope with the emotional fallout. The pandemic, she says, fundamentally changed their lives, altering not only their professional trajectory but their sense of self and their overall well-being.

The thing is, we often hear about the heroic efforts of healthcare workers during the pandemic. And rightly so. They were incredible. But what we often overlook is the profound and lasting impact it had on their mental health. Sarah’s story, and the stories of countless other nurses like her, serve as a stark reminder that the scars of the pandemic run deep, and that the healing process will likely take years, if not decades.

It’s a conversation we need to have – a conversation about the unseen wounds of the pandemic, the hidden costs of heroism, and the urgent need for support and resources for healthcare workers struggling with PTSD and other mental health challenges. We need to acknowledge the profound sacrifices they made, not just with words, but with tangible action, ensuring that they have access to the mental health care they need to recover and rebuild their lives.

It’s easy to forget, to move on, to tuck those difficult memories away. But the experience of healthcare workers, especially those in critical care, shouldn’t be minimized or forgotten. Their resilience deserves recognition, and their ongoing mental health struggles demand our attention and support.

This isn’t just about individual stories; it’s about systemic change. We need to create a system that prioritizes the mental health and well-being of our healthcare workers, not just during crises, but consistently and proactively.

Sarah’s story isn’t unique. It’s a reflection of a much larger problem, a silent epidemic of trauma that needs to be addressed with urgency, compassion, and substantial resources. Let’s start listening, let’s start supporting, and let’s start making real changes to prevent this from happening again.

We owe it to them.