I spend my days moving between two worlds — writing stories about connection, and working in a profession built on it. When people find out I’m a nurse, the tone of a conversation shifts. Humor softens into honesty, and strangers share pieces of their lives that feel both familiar and sacred.
By Dennis D. Montoya
I’ve been a nurse for a long time and a writer even longer. The “nurse” part resonates with people. My friends and family ask my opinion on everything — symptoms, supplements, vitamins, sleep, stress.
Followed by a pause, that moment where they look at me sideways, trying to weigh the “nurse” against the “Dennis.”
They trust the professional in me… but the guy who comes to their barbecues and tells bad jokes? The writer with a fantasy lens glued to his face? Let’s be honest — they don’t say tale-spinner, but it’s implied. They already know I can pop off at any time on some wild tale.
So does everyone take my advice? Out of all the people who ask what I think, maybe a few follow it.
Glad to say, I’ve picked out appendicitis, an abdominal embolism, a few diabetic issues — the list is longer than it should be.
Just so, you know… occasionally I know stuff, and sometimes helpful.
So there I was at a wedding reception, music blaring, people dancing, a few intoxicated guests in the corner singing off-key but totally committed. The bride and groom kept sweeping through the crowd, laughing and hugging everyone in sight.
My wife, being the social butterfly she is, was already talking to the next table over, moving through conversations like she’d been elected mayor of the room. Meanwhile, I was sitting there with my drink, doing my best impression of someone who belongs at social events, and failing.
Occasionally, usually after too much caffeine or while I’m still riding the jitters from a long day, I develop a superpower. I can tell bold-faced lies with pure confidence. Not out of malice, but my strange attempt at awkward humor, with the occasional great one-liners, too. It’s a useful skill for a writer doing character voices or movie quotes… less helpful in casual conversations where people tend to believe me. Oops.
I never really know what’s going to fly out of my mouth — usually funny, never hurtful — but always a gamble.
That’s when the bride’s mom walked up, smiled, and asked how I was connected to the bride or groom.
“Oh, I’m a wedding crasher,” I said — straight, bold-faced lie, delivered flawlessly.
I watched the surprise bloom. I knew she wasn’t on the same wavelength of humor, so before she called the bouncer, I added, “My wife knows everyone. I’m her plus-one.”
She laughed, pulled up a chair, and that’s when it happened. The “wedding crasher” still lingering in her eyes, she wanted to know more about me.
“Okay, seriously. What do you do?” she asked, her expression set — not quite amused, not quite convinced.
I was on the verge of spinning another lie, but figured she wouldn’t enjoy a second round.
“I’m a nurse,” I said.
There it was.
You can see it when it happens. Not dramatic. Just… a shift. Her shoulders pulled in a little, her smile softened.
“Oh,” she said, quieter now. “Can I ask you something?” Just like that, the wedding disappeared.
Dang it. I try to lead with “I’m a writer.” It sounds simple enough, but what follows is always that tiny, awkward pause — the look that says, “Should I know you? Have I read anything of yours?” Sometimes they’re curious. Sometimes they look politely blank. Either way, it’s never the smoothest icebreaker.
We’ll be talking about something normal — the weather, hiking, the best way to pan-fry mushrooms — but when people find out I’m a nurse… everything changes.
You can watch the shift happen like a mood ring. Their posture straightens, their eyes brighten, as their mind starts working. Then comes that half-second pause where they decide just how honest they’re about to get. Some lean in like we’re in a confessional booth. Others lower their voices and whisper, “Can I show you something?”
I’ve seen pant legs rolled up, shirts lifted, and phones handed over with close-up photos I did not ask to see. Sometimes it’s harmless curiosity — a rash shaped like the state of Ohio, a mole that “used to look smaller.” Other times, it’s heavier: questions about fatigue, medication, a parent’s health, or cancer.
It’s funny — not in a mocking way, but in a human way. People don’t do it for attention. They do it because nurse carries a certain responsibility. It means competence, care, confidentiality. It means, for a moment, someone who will listen without judgment.
Maybe that’s why nurses are consistently ranked among the most trusted professions in America — right up there with firefighters. It’s a reputation built on listening, on showing up, on telling the truth even when it’s hard.
I try to meet every question with my best self, which means best listening, best effort, best advice. Because underneath every question, every rash, every whispered story, there’s concern. There’s real concern. People are looking for someone safe to tell their secret to.
Sometimes the questions come wrapped in humor.
“Here, look at this,” they say, flashing me a photo, then pausing mid-swipe.
“Oh, you’re a nurse. You’ve probably seen worse.” Then they show me the picture anyway.
“It’s probably just stress, right?”
Other times, it’s pure vulnerability. Someone admits they haven’t seen a doctor in years. Or that they can’t afford another bill. Or that they’re scared of what they’ll hear if they go.
Whether in the hospital or at a reception, I’ve learned to hear the quiet edge beneath the laugh is the worry they don’t say out loud. And when that moment comes, everything else falls away. I give them what matters most: my full, undivided attention. I listen.
Listening to people — leaning in, trying to get the full picture — you start to realize that every person you meet has a story they’re waiting to tell someone who understands.
So yes, people show me their scars and tell me about their sleepless nights. They show me pictures they probably shouldn’t. And I listen — to their worries, their fears, the indecision about what to do next. Most of the time, they already know the answer. They’re just looking for someone — maybe a nurse at a reception — who might offer a little clarity.
Beneath the awkward moments and the accidental anatomy lessons, there’s something I hold sacred: trust, honesty, and people trying to be real.
Maybe that’s what connects nursing and writing after all — both begin with listening, both ask for honesty, and both depend on what someone is brave enough to share.
If I can offer a little clarity, a little steadiness, a little humor in the middle of all that, then I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Thanks for reading.
— Dennis D. Montoya
Stories Forged in Ink & Ash
Author Note
Dennis D. Montoya is a fantasy and literary fiction writer exploring themes of connection, memory, and resilience. He writes from the intersection of storytelling and healthcare, where empathy is both a craft and a calling.
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