A Breath Returned: The Day Instinct, Chaos, and Comedy Collided

Some days at work feel ordinary… and then there are the days that slam into your heart and stay there. Today was one of those days, equal parts terrifying, humbling, and surprisingly hilarious.

Everything was normal until it wasn’t.
One moment someone was swallowing meds like any other day, and the next moment there was no breath at all. That look — the one that says “I can’t breathe”, is something you never forget.

There wasn’t time for technique, positioning, or second-guessing. Instinct took over before I even realized what I was doing. I hit the emergency button and got behind her in the bed, performing abdominal thrusts with all my focus on one thing: helping her breathe again.

And then came the grand entrance.

A whole group of doctors started walking in, right while I’m the most awkwardly positioned human on Earth, basically kneeling in the bed behind her like some kind of action-movie stunt double who didn’t get rehearsal time.

A therapist had tried to help already, nothing was moving yet, and there I was, locked in, hoping to God for even the tiniest breath.

Then finally, FINALLY, she pulled in air. A small gasp, then another, then her voice. The relief in that room hit like a tidal wave.

And just when I thought the crisis was over…
I remembered something important:

I was still in the bed.

Let me tell you: trying to get OUT of a hospital bed in front of a group of doctors after saving someone’s life should qualify as its own Olympic event. My foot got caught in the side rail. Twisted. For a second, I thought I was going to become the next patient. One of the doctors gave me this half-smile — the kind that says:

“I’m impressed, but also… what exactly am I witnessing right now?”

Honestly? I couldn’t blame him.

It was dramatic.
It was chaotic.
It was awkward.
It was very, very human.

And it reminded me of something big:

We don’t get to choose the moments that change us —
but we DO get to choose how we show up in them.

Today showed me that showing up matters.
Instinct matters.
Compassion matters.
Even when you’re tangled in a side rail, trying not to fall out of a bed.

And that’s exactly what I carry into my coaching too.

People don’t always choke physically — sometimes they choke emotionally. On fear. On grief. On stress. On burnout. On life coming at them too fast. And sometimes they just need someone willing to jump into the mess with them and help them breathe again.

Today I helped someone reclaim a breath.
Every day, I help people reclaim their emotional one.

Caring with Karen — Where Compassion Meets Confidence.

The Night I Went Into Labor at 26 Weeks

There are moments in life when fear and strength sit side by side, and you don’t realize which one is carrying you until much later.
For me, that moment came the night I went into labor at just 26 weeks pregnant.

I was young, confused, and completely unaware that what I was feeling was labor. I just knew my back hurt. I kept trying to get comfortable. I walked. I paced. I soaked in a warm bath, not realizing it was actually speeding up the process. I kept trying to use the bathroom, thinking I needed to go — not knowing I was actually trying to push out a tiny baby fighting to enter the world.

Looking back, I wish I had someone in the room who recognized what was happening.
But at the time, I was alone.

By the next morning, the pain was undeniable. After talking with my doctor, I rushed to the hospital. They checked me, and the doctor walked in with a seriousness that made the room feel smaller.

His words are something I’ll never forget:

“We’re having a baby today.”

I remember saying, “No we’re not… it’s too soon.”
But there was no stopping what was already in motion.

Within two hours of arriving, I delivered a 2 pound 8 ounce baby girl — tiny, fragile, and fighting from the very first breath. I heard the faintest cry before they intubated her and placed her in an isolette for transport to a larger hospital.

The moment she left the room, everything inside me shifted.
I was a mother.
And I was terrified.

I spent that first night alone in the hospital, recovering physically but unable to rest emotionally. There is a specific kind of ache that comes from being separated from your newborn — an ache that reaches into a place you didn’t know existed.

When I was discharged after 24 hours, my stepmom picked me up. I packed my bags, got in my car, and drove myself to the hospital where my daughter had been transported. Nothing could keep me away from her.

She spent two months in the NICU.
Ventilated. Monitored. Protected by teams of nurses and doctors who became family.
I pumped every three hours — determined to give her the best start I could.

And she fought.
And she lived.
And she grew into the woman she is today.

That experience changed me forever.
It shaped my empathy as a nurse.
It shaped my strength as a woman.
It shaped my heart as a mother.
And it taught me that even in the moments when I felt the most alone, I was never truly without strength.

Sometimes the hardest beginnings make the strongest souls — for both mother and child.

If you’re walking through your own unexpected chapter — motherhood, caregiving, or navigating life alone — you don’t have to do it by yourself.
This is why I created Caring With Karen.

💛 Book a session: caringwithkaren.com

The Day My Childhood Ended

There are moments in life that shape us long before we understand why.
For me, that moment came at 13 years old.

My family was going through a difficult time, and my mother made a decision that led her onto a different path. As a child, I didn’t understand the complexities adults carry, the emotions they battle, or the pain they hide. I only understood the quiet that settled into our home the day she left.

Suddenly it was just me and my daddy, trying to navigate a world that felt unfamiliar. He was a good man with a tender heart, and I watched him try to stay strong even when it was clear he was hurting. There’s a kind of ache a child feels when they see their parent in pain — a mix of confusion, fear, and love all tangled together.

And something in me shifted.

I cooked.
I cleaned.
I worked.
I grew up quietly, and quickly.

I didn’t resent it — I adapted.
I didn’t hate anyone — I just learned.
I didn’t become bitter — I became strong.

That season wasn’t about blame or anger.
It was about survival, love, and learning how to keep going when life doesn’t go the way you expect. It was the beginning of a strength I didn’t realize I was building — the same strength that carried me through motherhood, loss, nursing school, grief, and every difficult chapter that came after.

Looking back now, I see that 13-year-old girl clearly.
She didn’t understand everything happening around her — how could she?
But she did what she knew: she helped, she tried, she cared, she grew.

And that girl is still inside me.

She’s the reason I’m compassionate.
She’s the reason I work so hard.
She’s the reason I show up for others the way I do.
She’s the reason Caring With Karen exists at all.

Because strength isn’t built in the easy seasons.
It’s built in the moments we never asked for, but somehow survived.

As I step into this new chapter — choosing to go back for my RN at 47 — I carry her with me.
Her grit.
Her heart.
Her resilience.

She didn’t know it then, but she was preparing me for the woman I would one day become.

And today, I honor her by continuing to rise.

If my story resonates with you and you’re navigating your own hard chapter, you don’t have to walk it alone.
This is why I created Caring With Karen — a place for compassion, clarity, and support.

💛 Book a session: caringwithkaren.com

My Next Chapter: Choosing Myself at 47

There are moments in life when you feel the ground shift under your feet—not because something is falling apart, but because something inside you finally wakes up. That’s where I am right now.

My story has never been smooth. At 13 years old, childhood ended for me. My mother walked out of our home and disappeared from my life until the day I graduated. I didn’t get an explanation, a warning, or a goodbye. Suddenly, it was just me and my daddy, and I watched him break in ways a child should never have to witness.

I learned to cook, clean, work, and shoulder more responsibility than most teenagers can imagine. That was the beginning of my strength, even if I didn’t recognize it at the time.

Years later, life didn’t slow down—it intensified.

At 20, I became a mother under circumstances most people don’t live through. I went into labor at 26 weeks, alone, scared, and confused. I delivered a 2-pound baby girl who was rushed into the NICU before I even had time to process what had happened.

For weeks, I split myself between caring for my newborn and caring for my dying mother. And then, at 25, I lost my father—the one person who had always been steady, loving, and true.

And through all of it, I kept going. I kept choosing compassion.

I built a career in nursing rooted in empathy, kindness, and understanding. I built my coaching business from that same place—because I’ve lived through the kind of moments that change a person’s soul.

But there has always been a dream waiting quietly in the background:

finishing my RN.

I attempted it once in my early twenties, but that season of my life was stacked with too much grief, too much responsibility, and too many people who needed me. I didn’t fail—it wasn’t my time.

Now, at 47 years old, it finally is.

I’ve made the decision to return for my ASN first, take my boards, and become the RN I’ve always known I could be. And after that? UAB will pay for my BSN, and eventually, my master’s.

I’m not doing this to chase a title.

I’m doing this because I’ve outgrown the box I’ve been living in.

Because I’m meant to lead, teach, guide, and make a bigger impact.

Because my life experience makes me a stronger nurse, not a tired one.

And because somewhere in my heart, this feels like honoring my daddy—the man who believed in me long before I believed in myself.

Life didn’t give me an easy path.

But it gave me grit.

It gave me resilience.

It gave me a story worth sharing.

And it gave me a purpose I refuse to ignore.

So here I am, stepping into my next chapter with bravery, clarity, and a fire inside me that’s been building for years.

If you’re reading this, I hope you find a piece of your own strength in my story.

It’s never too late to become the woman you were meant to be. 💛

Every story has a turning point.

If you’re ready for yours, I’m here to walk with you.

I offer one-on-one coaching to help you find direction, balance, and confidence during life’s hardest seasons.

✨ Schedule your session at caringwithkaren.com

Transformation starts with one step.

When a Friendship Starts to Feel Like Work

Ever love someone who drains the life out of you without meaning to?

Yeah… me too.

You show up, you listen, you care, but somewhere between the tears, the rants, and the same story on repeat, you start realizing you’re not in a friendship anymore… you’re in an emotional full-time job you never applied for.

You still love them, but dang, you miss fun. You miss laughing until your cheeks hurt, running errands together, sharing ideas, dreaming big. Instead, every hangout feels like walking into another episode of the same drama, and you already know how it ends.

So here’s the truth I’m learning: you can love your friend and love your peace.

You can care about someone and crave quiet.

And you don’t have to choose between being kind and being sane.

Sometimes friendship needs a gentle reboot, not to walk away, but to breathe again. To laugh again. To remember why you liked each other in the first place.

So if your friendship has started feeling like work, try this:

Look them in the eye and say, “Hey, I love you, but I miss us. Let’s talk about something that makes us smile for once.”

Because friendship isn’t supposed to feel like carrying a boulder uphill.

It’s supposed to feel like sunlight, steady, warm, and real.💛

A Note from Caring with Karen

At Caring with Karen, I believe compassion and boundaries can coexist. Real care isn’t about fixing everyone, it’s about staying whole enough to keep showing up with love.

If you’ve ever needed to hit “reset” on a friendship, you’re not alone. Sometimes peace isn’t distance, it’s clarity.

Seeing Beyond the Pain

A reflection by Karen Sanderson, LPN

Not long ago, I cared for a young woman recovering from a serious accident. She had endured multiple injuries and surgeries, and her mother sat quietly at her bedside, exhausted, protective, andfilled with the kind of worry only a parent can know.

During report, I was told the patient could be “demanding.” She wanted her medications on time, to the minute, and often grew frustrated when that didn’t happen. But as I prepared to meet her, I reminded myself that every behavior tells a story, and that sometimes, what looks like anger is really fear, pain, or loss of control.

When I entered her room, she was in tears. She felt unseen, unheard, and powerless. Instead of reacting, I slowed down. I explained what I was doing, gave her choices, and let her know I was listening. That small shift — giving her control where she had none — changed everything. Her tone softened, her anxiety eased, and her pain seemed a little lighter.

I cared for her again the next day. During my shift, I changed the dressing on her external fixation pins, the first change since surgery. She had already received her routine pain medication, but I saw genuine pain on her face as I worked. Every time I accidentally bumped the metal frame, she winced and cried. So I administered a breakthrough pain medication that had been ordered for that exact reason, to relieve severe pain beyond her regular dose.

When the next nurse came on, she was frustrated. She said,“Now she’ll expect those between her routine doses, since you told her she can have them.

” I explained that the medication was given because she truly needed it — not because she asked for it, but because she deserved relief during a painful procedure.

That moment stayed with me. Too often, we in healthcare forget that patients aren’t trying to make our jobs harder — they’re trying to survive an experience they never asked for. When we let frustration or convenience decide our care, we lose sight of what nursing really is: compassion in action.

Empathy doesn’t create more work, it creates trust. And trust heals.

Our patients are more than their behaviors. Behind every sigh, every demand, every tear, there’s fear, exhaustion, and sometimes trauma too deep to put into words. We are their safety net in the storm.

I’ll never apologize for putting my patient’s needs first. Because real nursing isn’t about getting through the shift, it’s about showing up for the human being in the bed.

The Calm Journal: From Karen’s Heart 💗

🌸 Grace in the Everyday ✨

Finding calm when life feels heavy.

Encouragement and simple resets for everyday life, from Karen’s heart 💗

Finding Calm When Life Feels Heavy 💖

🌿 1. Celebrate the Small Wins

Even tiny steps count.

Returning one phone call

Folding one load of laundry

Taking a shower

They may not seem like much, but they matter.

They prove that even on hard days, you’re still showing up.

🌸 2. Do the Next Thing You Can

You don’t have to do it all. Pick one step and make it easier.

Order dinner instead of cooking.

Tackle just one corner instead of the whole house.

Small choices lighten the load and remind you that progress is possible.

☀️ 3. Rest Without Guilt

Sometimes the best thing you can do is pause.

Close your eyes for five minutes.

Step outside for fresh air.

Take a nap without apologizing.

Rest isn’t weakness—it’s choosing peace.

🌷 4. Notice the Good Things

Write them down, even the little ones:

Sunlight hitting your face

A glass of water when you’re thirsty

A smile from someone passing by

These tiny joys can ground you when your mind feels like it’s spinning.🤝

🤝 5. Remember You’re Not Alone

This road can feel isolating, but you’re not walking it by yourself.

Call a friend

Share honestly with someone you trust

Let small reminders of goodness encourage you

Behind every smile at the grocery store or every co-worker pushing through their own struggles—there’s proof you’re

not falling behind. You’re human. You’re enough.

💭 Closing Thoughts

You don’t need perfection. You just need to keep breathing, keep showing up, and keep reminding yourself that today

is enough.