I am Abbie, a Black registered nurse in an all-white team in Newcastle, working in an NHS hospital meant to heal but often leaves me wounded.
Every shift, I step into a world where I am seen but never indeed seen.
I am an outsider in a place that preaches care and equality but practices something else entirely. The walls of the hospital are cold, not just from sterile air but from the frost that forms when I walk into the staff room.
The smiles fade, conversations stop mid-sentence, and suddenly, I am alone, even in a room full of people. In the beginning, it was subtle - little things. I would speak up in meetings, offering suggestions or concerns, and they would act as if I hadn't spoken. A white colleague would say the same thing minutes later, and suddenly, it was brilliant. I began questioning myself - maybe I wasn't loud, clear, or confident enough. But I quickly realised it wasn't my voice they couldn't hear - it was my Blackness they couldn't look past.
As time passed, the treatment worsened. White colleagues would make big mistakes - forgetting to administer vital medication, misplacing patient charts, taking too long with patients - but they were always given another chance. "We're all human," the manager would say with a reassuring smile. I made a minor error once, something easily correctable, but the reaction was swift and merciless. There was no smile, no reassurance - just a summons to the office, accusations flying like daggers.
Suddenly, I was incompetent. Suddenly, I was a threat to patient safety and the wider public.
The meeting was tense. I sat across from the managers - none of them looked like me. They were all white, their faces solemn, their tone cold.
The accusations were laid out - blown out of proportion, of course.
They claimed I wasn't "meeting standards," that I wasn't "fitting in." But I had seen how my white colleagues were treated, how they were forgiven, even coddled for the very same things I was now being punished for.
Their mistakes were just that - no blame mistakes. Mine were "serious misconduct."
I tried to explain, to defend myself, but my words fell on deaf ears.
They had already made up their minds. In their eyes, I was guilty before I even walked into the room. The words "It's not about race, Abbie" were thrown around as if that absolved them from the racism seeping into every decision they made. But I could feel it in every interaction, every conversation, every sideways glance. It was always about race. My Blackness was on trial, not my skills as a nurse.
They didn't stop there. They referred me to the Nursing and Midwifery Council (NMC), a regulatory body with the power to strip me of my career and my livelihood. I had seen several other Black nurses go through the same thing - disproportionately targeted, investigated, and sanctioned for infractions that white nurses would never face such harsh consequences for. I watched as white nurses with much worse records kept their jobs and their reputations intact while Black nurses like me were dragged through endless investigations with our careers hanging in the balance.
It wasn't about safety or competence - it was about a white hierarchy and power, control, and an unspoken agreement to keep Black Nurses like me in check.
The weight of it all - the injustice, the isolation - became unbearable. Every time I walked into that hospital, I felt my chest tighten and my heart race, knowing that at any moment, they could accuse me of something else. I could be a model nurse, going above and beyond, and it still wouldn't be enough. My Blackness was a mark they couldn't erase, and for that, I would always be under suspicion.
The accusations were terrible enough, but it was also the silence that hurt the most. My colleagues, the ones who saw how hard I worked and how dedicated I was, said nothing. They watched as I was singled out, profiled and punished. They remained silent. Silence, I learned, was its own form of collaboration. In this all-white environment, they didn't have to say the racist words out loud - their silence said it for them. It allowed the racism to thrive, unchecked and unchallenged, as I was slowly pushed out, one accusation at a time.
The more I tried to speak up, the more I was labelled and ostracised. I became the "angry Black woman," not because I was angry but because I refused to be silent.
The emotional toll was overwhelming. I had always loved nursing - it was my passion, my calling. But now, it felt like a battle I couldn't win. The stress, the anxiety, and the constant need to prove myself in a toxic environment that did not value me wore me down. I began to question whether I even belonged in this profession, in this place that was supposed to be about care but had shown me nothing but cruelty.
Before I found Equality 4 Black Nurses, I was on the verge of losing everything I had worked for and I felt like I was drowning. Each day at work felt like an uphill battle, being undermined, scrutinised, covertly monitored and constantly singled out in ways my white colleagues never were. The weight of racism was suffocating, but it was always disguised as 'just doing their job.' I questioned my ability, my worth, and even if nursing was still the right path for me.
I was emotionally exhausted, and the isolation was unbearable.
Then, I found Equality 4 Black Nurses. From the moment I reached out, they embraced me with open arms. Faith provided me with a life-changing support bubble. Having someone who truly understood my struggles and who had lived them gave me a renewed sense of hope. Faith's support helped me breathe again, reminding me that I wasn't fighting this battle alone.
But it didn't stop there. Beverley, through her tailored counselling, helped me unpack the layers of racial trauma I had been carrying for years. She helped me process the anger, pain and hurt I'd buried deep down to survive in that hostile environment. Her counselling sessions were a turning point for me, validating my experiences and helping me rebuild my emotional resilience.
For the first time, I felt seen and heard.
Equality 4 Black Nurses provided me with a support network and empowered me.
They helped me realise that the problem wasn't me but the deeply rooted racism within the system. I was given the tools to advocate for myself, to identify and recognise unfair treatment, and to reclaim my power.
With their guidance, I felt protected as part of a collective group, and I now refused to let racism drive me out of the career I've worked so hard for.
Thanks to Faith, Beverly, David, Sharon, and the Equality 4 Black Nurses team, I'm still standing strong.
I've found my voice again, and I know I'm part of a larger community of Black, Asian and Global Majority Nurses, Midwives, Carers and Doctors pushing back against injustice.
Together, we are making a difference, and I am proud to be part of this fight for equality.
Thought of the day......
If Black nurses like Abbie are treated this way in a profession designed to heal and nurture, how deep does the systemic racism run in the institutions meant to care for us all?
Unfortunately, black nurses now victimise themselves alot to look better and gain the hearts of the whites and Asians. So sad!
This resonates with me. Painful but glad you didn’t give up Abby.