Nurses Eat Their Young: Bullying The New Nurse

The Breaking Point

“Where is she?”

I heard my coworkers calling me as they passed the closet. I was on the other side of that door—not to take something from the closet shelves, but to breathe, pray, take a silent scream, and calm myself down before I did something that would have a not-so-very-good ending.

I took gulps of air and held on to the door, afraid someone would open it suddenly and see the mess I was in—me sitting on the floor, my other arm in between my teeth as I bit into it to smother a scream.

The noise. The overwhelm. The chaos. And that quiet voice in my head chanting, “I can’t do this anymore.” It wouldn’t shut up.

There were so many things to do that I didn’t even know where to begin. Then there was the pressure of being watched. The unspoken expectation that you already knew things no one actually taught you.

And then—of course—there was the “helpful” soul waiting for me to mess up. Not to catch me but to collect receipts.

When “Support” is Just a Setup

She was the first nurse I shadowed, my assigned mentor. At first, she seemed friendly—the type who smiled with her whole face, always looked busy, and said things like, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

She walked me through things during orientation—showed where the supplies were and how things flowed.

Then, like a switch flipped, she started broadcasting my flaws. How slow I was. How many questions I asked. How she had to repeat things like she was reading to a toddler.

If I made a mistake, she’d broadcast it to anyone within a 12-foot radius. If I didn’t, she’d plant just enough doubt to make it seem like I had.

It wasn’t support. It was surveillance. She wasn’t mentoring but gathering material for her next performance review.

The way she corrected me in front of everyone had nothing to do with safety or mentorship. It was a performance—her competence on full display, my supposed incompetence cast as the opening act.

Bonus points for the dramatic sighs and eye-roll cameos.

Nurses Eat Their Young

Let’s name it.

Nurses eat their young.

It’s the unspoken rite of passage we joke about in nursing school—until we’re two weeks into a new job, hiding in a closet, crying into a mop handle, wondering what exactly we signed up for.

This isn’t about tough love. It’s not character-building. It’s hazing. It’s bullying. It’s toxic workplace culture disguised as “how it’s always been.”

It’s often done by those who’ve been through it themselves. Instead of breaking the cycle, they pass the baton like it’s tradition.

And when you’re new, all you can do is smile, nod, and hope you survive it with your license and self-esteem intact.

In my case, it was subtle things—people going quiet when I walked into the breakroom, being “forgotten” during shift updates, or being asked loaded questions that felt more like traps than teaching moments.

It was getting the worst patient load and being excluded from group chats or huddles.

Other times, it was emotional manipulation dressed as advice: “You’re too sensitive,” or “We all went through it.”

Surviving doesn’t have to mean suffering in silence. Sometimes, it means knowing who’s in your corner, writing things down, and refusing to let someone else’s judgment define you.

The Angel Who Helped Me Survive

Thankfully, there was one nurse who made it bearable.

She was the reason I stayed. The angel sent by heaven to help me survive that hellhole unit.

She warned me in quiet corners. She offered help without drawing attention. She told me the things that no policy manual ever will—like who to avoid, what to keep receipts for, and how to document your way out of a gaslighting attempt.

She made me smile and feel like I would be able to survive.

She told me about her early days, how she used to cry in a closet, too; she felt alone, overwhelmed, and betrayed. And how she, too, had imagined stabbing certain people in her head. Not fatally—just enough to take the edge off the shift.

We laughed. Not because it was funny but because it was true.

She didn’t try to be the hero.

But she showed me how to breathe through the mess.

Some Days You Just Pretend to Be Busy

Some days, I walked around with a chart in hand or a syringe tucked in my palm like it meant something.

Moving quickly, eyes forward, I did everything I could to look occupied enough that no one would stop me.

People left you alone when you looked busy.

Other days, I got the worst rooms, the worst patients, the worst luck—because hey, “It builds character.”

Once, someone redid my work just to prove I’d done it wrong—even when I hadn’t.

I wasn’t trying to slack. I was just trying to survive the simulation.

You’re expected to look confident but not arrogant. Ask questions, but not too many. Move quickly, but not carelessly.

It’s like being in a video game where everyone else has the cheat codes.

And all the while, my supposed “mentor” is watching from the shadows like she’s auditioning for a psychological thriller.

Eyes locked. Just waiting for a wrong step and a reason to say, “See? Told you.”

Crying Was Safer Than Confronting

I wish I could say I stood up for myself, that I threw down a clipboard, stomped my foot in anger, and gave a monologue worthy of an Emmy.

But I didn’t.

When you’re new, your silence is a form of self-preservation. You’re still learning people’s names, the layout, and which printer throws tantrums the most.

Confronting someone would’ve been like trying to do CPR without checking for a pulse—reckless and probably a waste of energy.

So, instead, I cried.

Not in front of anyone. Of course not. We all know the rules.

Cry in the closet. Fix your face. Return to the floor like nothing happened.

It wasn’t weakness. It was ventilation.

And Then There Was Fire

I didn’t know what I didn’t know then.

I was a newbie. Anxious. Overstimulated. Subjected to the fires of doom with no user manual.

At one point, I was so far gone from stress that I looked like the girl from The Ring—blank stare, hair in my face, emotionally crawling out of a corner while pretending everything was fine.

She cried.

She showed up anyway.

She got through it.

And now she’s me.

Not perfect, but solid. Less wide-eyed, more watchful. Quieter, but heavier in presence.

Khaleesi without the dragons—just the look of someone who’s seen things and kept going (wink, wink, Game of Thrones fans).

Build the Village You Deserve

They say it takes a village to raise a nurse, that we survive this job because of the people we work with.

But the truth is, some of us are surviving not just the job but the people we expected to lean on.

So, let’s break the cycle.

Let’s stop passing on the damage we received. Let’s stop using our scars to justify stabbing others.

Let’s make our units feel less like a battlefield and more like a place where people actually want to come back the next day.

Because one helpful nurse can make all the difference.

The one who whispers, “Don’t mind her, that’s just how she is—just focus on your work.”

The one who says, “Here, I’ll show you again,” without making you feel like trash for not remembering the first time.

The one who sees you struggling and offers help—not a lecture.

You don’t have to be everyone’s savior. But you can choose not to be someone’s reason for hiding in the closet.

That alone is enough to start building a better village.

To the New Nurse Hiding in the Closet

If you’ve ever had to sneak away just to cry, this is for you.

You are not incompetent. You are not too slow. You are not failing.

You are new. That’s all.

And you are walking through the fire like so many of us did—with trembling hands, bloodshot eyes, and a fierce little flame that’s still burning even when no one sees it.

You may not see it now, but one day, you’ll find your rhythm.

You’ll know where the best gowns are stashed. You’ll figure out the shortcuts that make your day smoother.

You’ll learn who brings the good pens, who makes people smile, and who you can ask when you don’t know something—and not be shamed for it. You’ll read the room quicker, chart faster.

And yes, the time for you to clock out on time will come.

You won’t always feel this bad. The fog will clear eventually.

And when it does, you’ll realize you’ve become the kind of nurse you once needed.