In nursing school, we’re taught how to calculate dosages via infamous med math exams, insert catheters with sterile technique, and document assessments efficiently. We learn to recite protocols and recognize clinical signs. However, what no one prepares you for is the quiet grief that can settle into your chest after a patient dies—the grief that doesn’t show up on a skills checklist or a simulation manikin.
I encountered this for the first time recently, when I assisted medical staff in transporting a patient to the morgue. The air felt different—heavier. Everything about the moment was calm and procedural, yet full of weight. No one cried, no alarms sounded, and yet something profound had ended. It’s an experience I won’t forget, not because of what I did, but because of what I felt.
To explore how nursing students and faculty navigate grief, I spoke with two students at the UCLA School of Nursing who recently experienced patient death before their eyes, Aderinsola Akintade and Jude Marting, and Professor Totten, who has decades of ICU experience. I conducted these interviews in April 2025.
Their stories are different, but all share a quiet understanding: grief is a part of this profession, and school doesn’t quite prepare you for it.
“We Didn’t Expect Him to Die That Morning”
Aderinsola Akintade, a nursing student, had her first patient death just three hours into her first-ever 12-hour shift at Ronald Reagan 6N Neurology and Neurosurgery unit. Her patient was on comfort care, unable to speak, and surrounded by family when he passed. Akintade watched the color drain from the patient’s face and described the moment in vivid detail—how everything changed so quickly, yet no alarms rang. It was different from what she expected, she admitted. “But I also knew I did everything I could. I was calm, and I kept going.”
Marting, who assisted Akintade that day, described a similar feeling. “I expected I’d be devastated, but I was surprisingly composed,” he said. Marting elaborated that he had other patients, so he had to remain composed to give the best possible care to them. “I think I went into clinical mode. But later, I felt the weight of it—especially when we stepped outside for lunch, and I realized the world just keeps moving.”
Both students stressed the importance of talking things through afterward—with each other, with roommates, with family. They found strength in the shared experience, and in the fact that they had each other to process with.
“Keeping it bottled up would’ve made it worse, I needed to say it out loud.”
-Jude Marting
Professor’s Perspective: Grief Doesn’t End When the Shift Does
Professor Totten, our clinical instructor, has seen many patients die—and has carried those experiences with her. “Grief doesn’t go away,” she told me. “You live with it. Hopefully, in a functional way.” She reflected on a patient case from several years ago, where the situation raised ethical concerns about prolonging care for educational benefit. It left her unsettled. “That’s why I believe in simulation,” she said. “Let us learn without compromising dignity.”
She also admitted that nursing school cannot fully prepare students on how to emotionally handle patient death. “We focus on the technical things,” she said. “But I think this emotional preparation is essential. That’s what separates us from machines.”
Today, Professor Totten copes through spirituality, mindfulness, and journaling. She credits her faith and her family with keeping her grounded.
“You cannot leave what happens at the hospital behind completely. We’re not light switches. We carry things, but how we carry it matters.”
-Professor Totten
The Psychological Impact of Patient Loss
The emotional effects of losing a patient often extend far beyond the moment itself. For student nurses and future medical professionals, the psychological toll can emerge quietly—through delayed stress responses, disrupted focus, or subtle shifts in motivation. It’s not just sadness; it can be moral distress, guilt, or emotional detachment, all of which are difficult to name, let alone address.
What complicates this is the culture of “pushing through.” In clinical settings, students are expected to absorb intense moments—sometimes witnessing death for the first time—and then carry on with the rest of the shift. “We had to keep going,” Akintade recalled. “But it did happen. And I still think about it.”
Marting added that without informal support from peers, the experience could have felt isolating. “There’s this idea that you’re supposed to be tough, but that doesn’t make the mental weight go away.”
Despite the prevalence of grief in clinical practice, instruction in classes only goes so far. This lack of preparation can make grief feel like a personal shortcoming rather than a natural response to human suffering. Recognizing the psychological impact of loss as a clinical issue—not just a personal one—is essential for student wellbeing and professional longevity.
Does Nursing School Prepare Us for Grief?
No matter how much training you receive or how many stories you hear, nothing truly prepares you for the moment a patient dies—until it happens. The silence, the stillness, the weight of finality—it’s something you can’t rehearse or simulate. It’s only in that moment that you realize grief isn’t theoretical. It’s real, and it stays with you.
While nursing school offers rigorous clinical training, emotional preparation for patient death often remains an underexplored area. That gap can leave students navigating grief without a clear roadmap.
That doesn’t mean it’s hopeless. Professor Totten advocates for building emotional resilience into nursing curricula and residency programs. Marting suggested grief education should start from day one, not as an afterthought. Akintade emphasized the importance of viewing patients as people first, not just diagnoses to manage.
“There’s no way to separate your work and your emotions—nursing stays with you. But if you let that stress just sit there, it will eat you up. Letting it out is how we stay well enough to keep caring for others.”
-Professor Totten
Moving Forward
We all process loss differently. For some, it comes as a delayed wave of reflection. For others, it’s a call to action—a reminder to do better, know more, be more present. Marting said the experience made him want to study harder, to be more prepared next time. Akintade said it reaffirmed her reason for entering the field: “Not every life can be saved, but I can still improve someone’s quality of life.”
As for me, I’m still learning what grief means in this field—what it means to walk someone down a hallway for the last time, or to hear a fellow student say, “I didn’t expect it to feel like this.” I know this: grief belongs in nursing. Not as a burden, but as a reminder of how deeply we care.
We enter this field to touch lives—sometimes, that means holding space at the end of one.
I’m deeply appreciative of the strong foundation my nursing education has provided. This reflection is a call to continue growing—ensuring emotional resilience is valued alongside clinical excellence.