Being Seen: A Gay Nurse’s Reflection on Authenticity, Advocacy, and Palliative Care
When I think back to my early days as a nurse—bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and full of hope—I can’t help but smile. I was determined to take on the world’s problems and make every life a little bit better. And I still chuckle softly at that version of myself, because now, more than 12 years into my nursing journey, I understand just how complex—and how beautiful—that mission really is.
I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve. I’ve never been someone who hides who I am. That didn’t change the day I earned the “RN” behind my name; if anything, my commitment to authenticity only deepened. Nursing school emphasized the importance of cultural competence, patient-centered care, and ethical integrity. But in practice, I quickly learned that these values aren’t always fully realized in every corner of healthcare.
Nursing is more than a job—it’s a calling.
A promise to meet people in their most vulnerable moments with empathy, integrity, and unwavering compassion. To do that well, we have to bring our whole selves to the work. For me, that includes being an openly gay man. It’s shaped not only how I show up for my patients, but also how I navigate my relationships with colleagues and advocate for others.
Being a gay nurse has offered both deep insight and difficult lessons. I’ve experienced the subtle and not-so-subtle biases—microaggressions, assumptions, even outright exclusion—in academic and clinical spaces. But I’ve also learned the incredible power of visibility. Of being seen—and helping others feel seen in return.
When patients sense that you’re showing up as your full, authentic self, something shifts. Trust grows. Walls come down. And for patients who are themselves part of the LGBTQ+ community—many of whom have faced judgment or discrimination in healthcare—that kind of connection can be profoundly healing. I’ve had patients confide in me simply because they sensed that I understood what it feels like to live outside the margins. And I do.
In my experience, authenticity fosters connection—not just with patients, but with peers. It chips away at ignorance and builds bridges across difference. LGBTQ+ professionals play a unique role in making healthcare spaces more inclusive, not only through representation but through advocacy and allyship. We push back against stereotypes. We invite new narratives. And we insist that inclusive care isn’t a special kind of care—it’s simply good care.
Over the years, I’ve worked in many settings, but it came as no surprise that I didn’t find sterile hospital environments welcoming. Traditional bedside nursing often felt physically grueling and emotionally distant. I was drawn to a different kind of nursing—one rooted in human connection, where the goal wasn’t cure, but comfort. That’s how I found my way to palliative and hospice care.
In this sacred space—where medicine meets meaning, and where dignity often matters more than diagnosis—I discovered a deeper sense of purpose. I was meeting patients who felt like they were “out of options.” I could sit beside them, hold space for their fears, and help them find peace. This is where nursing felt most aligned with who I am.
For LGBTQ+ nurses, palliative care carries additional weight. We’re often more attuned to nontraditional family structures, to chosen families, and to the subtle but significant ways in which identity affects care. We know the importance of using a trans patient’s correct pronouns, involving same-sex partners in decision-making, and ensuring that spiritual care doesn’t come with conditions. These aren’t just small gestures—they are acts of justice.
I’ve been at the bedside of patients who died alone—not because they had no one who loved them, but because those who loved them weren’t recognized as “family.” I’ve seen the quiet ache of estrangement, the empty room that should have been full of warmth. I’ve watched staff unintentionally push away those who mattered most, simply because they didn’t understand or respect the relationships that were present. These moments are not theoretical or abstract—they are heartbreakingly real.
And they’re the reason I believe so strongly in the role of advocacy in our work—not just for our patients, but for each other.
To be a nurse is to be an advocate. We speak up for the vulnerable. We ensure dignity in the face of illness. But our duty doesn’t stop at the bedside. We also have a responsibility to create inclusive environments for our colleagues. That means challenging discrimination when we see it. It means promoting diversity in leadership. It means supporting policies that center equity and representation.
Ultimately, we must build a healthcare system that sees people in their full humanity—whether they are a patient, a caregiver, or a clinician.
Everyone deserves to feel safe, valued, and heard. The health of our profession—and the health of those we care for—depends on it.
