The Poetic Nursing Heart
Jack Charter
248
By Tom Delahunt, the #Hobopoet and Leann Nyamande
“The familiar and the comfortable are not always your friends. Sometimes, what seems like falling is actually flying in disguise.” – The Hobopoet
There are moments in life when everything we’ve clung to—the known roles, the structures, the stories—begin to fall away. What remains is not a descent, but a strange kind of ascent. It doesn’t always feel uplifting. In fact, it often feels like grief. Like loss. Like chaos.
But in this reversal, this paradoxical movement of falling upwards, something essential breaks through. For those of us living with hidden disabilities, there’s a raw truth in that image: that to be broken open is to become light enough to rise. I have prided my educational methods on a foundation of honesty and the transformative power of what Richard Rohr calls “falling upward”—the idea that failure, vulnerability, and descent are often the necessary conditions for authentic growth. Rather than shielding students from discomfort or complexity, I try to create spaces where mistakes are welcomed as integral to learning, and where self-awareness takes precedence over perfection. As Rohr states, “the genius of the Gospel is that it reveals that it’s in the very falling that we learn to rise” (Rohr, Falling Upward, 2011). This philosophy has helped shape not just more resilient learners, but more compassionate human beings who are better equipped to navigate both the academic and emotional terrain of their lives.
I, the Hobopoet, have walked many hospital corridors with the scent of antiseptic in my nostrils and the ache of unspoken grief caught in my throat. I have watched students come and go—bright-eyed, overwhelmed, brave. Nicola Kingsley was one of them. But she was never just a student; she was the echo in my ribs, the other heartbeat in this poetic nursing heart.
Since she qualified, I have kept close—not to supervise or shadow—but to witness. To notice the subtle ruptures that appear when the world of theory collides with the practice of care. And what I’ve seen is someone willing to be harmed for others, to love in the open, to resist the slow freeze of apathy that can overtake our profession. That takes guts. That takes poetry.
Sometimes, I struggle to define what it is I actually do—I can’t always see the impact of holding space, sharing conversation, or offering quiet moments of decompression and awareness of oppression. But then, like a reflection in the pond, something surfaces. A message, like this one from Juvert—a student from 2021—reminds me that these shared moments matter. Juvert wrote to thank me for the guidance offered during our study days, saying those moments helped shape their path, from working in respiratory and cardiac care to now managing a ward at the Royal London Hospital. I don’t do this work for praise, but in their words, I glimpse the ripples.
The Post-COVID Rebalancing
During the pandemic, the world retreated. In fear, we hoarded pasta, loo roll, flour—as though material certainty could fill the void of fear, uncertainty, spiritual and emotional unravelling. And perhaps it had to be that way for a while. We curled into survival.
But now, there is a stirring. Not a thunderclap, not a shout—but the quiet murmur of people remembering their neighbour’s name, gifting tomatoes from the allotment, passing poems across tables, daring to cry together again.
This blog is part of that re-emergence. A return to gifting. A reclaiming of altruism as radical action.
We write together not as authority and student, but as twin wings. Light and dark. Yin and yang.
This second image is the heart of The Hunter Moon, my next children’s book. Inspired by Jung’s fire and ice, by Nietzsche’s void, by the dance of opposites that define both trauma and healing. It’s about learning that we hold both light and shadow, and only when they meet can transformation happen.
creative therapeutics is not a retreat—it’s a revolution.
Don’t believe me? Then maybe listen to the words and the art of my wonderful student Leann…..
Innocence – Light and Shadow
The world teaches us to wear different faces. It’s a lesson I never wanted to learn. But transitioning into adulthood has forced me to adapt—unwillingly. Around different people, I wear different masks. With each interaction, I tweak and adjust parts of myself I feel shouldn’t be seen. Especially the vulnerable ones. No one wants to hear the doom and gloom. No one wants to claim the darker parts of their story.
I’ve come to understand the Japanese philosophy of the three faces. Now, I consciously hide the parts of me that might be judged by society—even when those parts reflect trials I’ve already overcome. The second face, the one meant for close friends and family, shows a more relaxed and honest version of me… but not entirely. That’s been the hardest part to accept. For a long time, I was convinced I was an open book. And in many ways, I still am. But there are moments—fleeting, quiet moments—when I catch myself filtering what’s really going on. Out of fear. Fear of judgment. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being reduced to the stories I share.
Very few people have access to my inner world now. It’s not something I’m content with. In truth, I sometimes feel bitter about how difficult it has become to express myself. The second face has slowly started merging with the first—hiding the “ugly” that people tend to shy away from.
Then there’s the third face—the truest version of myself. I’ve learned to meet that self through journaling. Through capturing moments, honestly and imperfectly. Through being okay with admitting fault and naming the chaos.
As Jordan Peterson suggests, chaos and order are fundamental aspects of human existence. For metamorphosis to occur, both must be present. Like the Taoist symbol of Yin and Yang, I believe in the necessity of duality—complementary opposites that form a whole. Neither light nor shadow is more important than the other. They need each other to keep the balance. Understanding this, I believe that it is important to accept yourself than be in conflict… Because internal conflict breeds denial. Denial breeds deception. And deception—especially of self—leads to destruction. I’ve seen it happen, especially in workspaces and social interactions. People become unconscious monsters—aware, but unaware. Here we are conscious but not knowing…
Escapism Through Creative Therapeutics
“Painting is a metaphor for control,” said Niklaus Mikaelson—a complex anti-hero whose words linger within me.
I used to create purely for expression. It came naturally to me—until it didn’t. In many ways, I am privileged and blessed. I thank God for that. But the complexity of the adult world—and particularly the world of nursing—has stripped me of that innate ability to create freely.
Nursing has amplified the pain of creative silence. The long, emotionally and physically draining shifts have pushed me into dissociation. I’ve trained myself to forget. To let go of difficult moments instantly, almost instinctively. But this has come at a cost. Burnout. Waves of anxiety. Silent breakdowns. I remember once crying on the phone to my best friend, also an artist, who lives in Australia. It was the first time I openly shared how difficult nursing had become. The pain people don’t talk about. The part of the profession that can turn people into monsters—or push them away entirely.
It hurts that my ability to create has been perverted. Once a source of joy and beauty, it’s now often driven by frustration, distraction, control or escape. Art is no longer just expression—it has become survival. My saving grace.
However, though contradictory, through different forms—drawing, writing, observing, listening—art revives my soul. It reminds me of why I chose this path. It helps me dare to dream again. Music has become my lifeline. Especially driving to and from shifts. Beach House’s Rough Song speaks to that raw desire to escape: “I want to forget all that wasn’t right / I need to leave.”
RY X’s Salt brings healing. Fink’s Berlin Sunrise brings hope.
Will I ever break out of this cocoon? Will I survive the gruelling demands of this profession? Will I build the life I’ve envisioned—through caring for others?
These aren’t questions. They are desires. The artist holds on to desire…holds on to dreaming…
Symbols – The Butterfly and Faith
I’ve always loved Kendrick Lamar’s to Pimp a Butterfly. That album stays with me. The butterfly is a powerful metaphor for the exploitation of something beautiful and pure for personal gain. In many ways I resonate with this. I often relate with the lyricism that explores the pains of systemic issues while trying to metamorphosise and find my purpose in this world. Being exploited for personal gain… I resonate deeply with that image.
In Mortal Man, Kendrick says:
“The caterpillar is a prisoner to the streets that conceived it…
While consuming its environment
The caterpillar begins to notice ways to survive
One thing it noticed is how much the world shuns him
But praises the butterfly
The butterfly represents the talent, the thoughtfulness and the beauty within the caterpillar
But having a harsh outlook on life, the caterpillar sees the butterfly as weak
And figures out a way to pimp it to his own benefits…
The caterpillar goes to work on the cocoon
Which institutionalizes him
He can no longer see past his own thoughts, he’s trapped
When trapped inside these walls certain ideas take root, such as
Going home, and bringing back new concepts to this mad city
The result?
Wings begin to emerge, breaking the cycle of feeling stagnant
Finally free, the butterfly sheds light on situations
That the caterpillar never considered
Ending the internal struggle
Although the butterfly and caterpillar are completely different
They are one and the same”
What’s your perspective on that?”…
What’s your perspective on that?
The pain of navigating systemic issues. The internal struggle of metamorphosis. Feeling like a caterpillar in a mad city—trying to survive while slowly building a cocoon, hoping the transformation will come…
Faith Isn’t a Choice – It’s the Essence of Life
Faith is not something I choose. It is the core of who I am.
My relationship with Christ has been central to this journey. It would be impossible to talk about everything else and not mention Him. Trusting in Jesus has often saved me from the pain of placing my hope in people. A truth that might sound cynical, but one that has brought me a peace that surpasses understanding…
His teachings have shaped how I practice grace and understanding—two qualities that are essential in nursing. Prayer has carried me through countless 13-hour shifts. Journaling to Him has served as both healing and surrender. My walk with Christ continues, because the battles haven’t ended.
Conclusion – Falling Upwards
As I step into my final year, I carry mixed emotions. Gratitude, first and foremost. Grateful to have had this opportunity to learn and grow. Grateful for the beautiful souls I’ve encountered and cared for along the way.
But I also carry fear. The fear of being solely responsible for another person’s life. As a student, there’s always someone to defer to. But soon, that safety net will vanish. My fear isn’t failure—it’s failure despite good intentions. Still, I return to the earlier reflection: failure is part of growth. My approach has always been to stay teachable. To ask questions. To lean into discomfort. And I won’t stop doing that.
Confidence is the monster. Imposter syndrome makes me question whether I deserve the nurse’s pin. Whether I’m enough.
But I return to my core beliefs. I choose to move forward—dancing with both light and shadow. I tend toward light because that’s what’s often accepted. But true healing requires embracing both. How can we change that in the nursing profession?
How do we, as a community of healthcare practitioners, create space to fail? To heal? To extend grace without crucifying one another in an already emotionally demanding field?
Light alone is performative. In performing, we risk forgetting our purpose. As the saying goes:
Don’t let success get to your head. And don’t let failure get to your heart.
Am I ready?
Am I enough?
These are not questions. They are desires…
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The Butterfly Flame
There is a fire that doesn’t consume—it transforms. It’s not loud. It doesn’t demand. It flutters and glows, and when you catch it in your chest, you know: this is what healing feels like.
The butterfly flame is the centre of my PhD, and the metaphor that lights every project I undertake—from forest schools and children’s books to trauma-informed nursing education. It’s what I pass on to students, and what Leann now tends to in her own way.
We are hidden, yes. But we are also ablaze. Our disabilities are not deficits; they are portals. Through them, we fall. Through them, we rise. As Campo (2025) rightly suggests, poems, art and creative expression is a counter balance to what ‘Foucault’ 1963/2003 calls the clinical, scientific objectifying gaze.
Reference List
Foucault, M., 2003. The birth of the clinic: An archaeology of medical perception. Translated by A.M. Sheridan. London: Routledge. (Originally published 1963).
Jabbar, A., Abdulaali, W. (2025). Poetry, healing and medicine itself. Journal of Poetic Therapy,
Lamar, K., 2015. To pimp a butterfly. Top Dawg Entertainment.
Peterson, J.B., 2018. 12 rules for life: An antidote to chaos. London: Penguin.
Rohr, R., 2011. Falling upward: A spirituality for the two halves of life. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.
