This First Person column is by Eyasu Yakob, who is a nursing student in Edmonton. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I began nursing school in 2021 at the University of Alberta during the COVID-19 pandemic. Across Canada, growing attention was being raised around the shortage of nurses as many health-care workers were reporting burnout. I wanted to be part of the solution.
I was inspired to join the profession by my father, who worked as a nurse in Ethiopia before immigrating to Canada. Like many internationally educated health-care professionals, he faced barriers in having his foreign nursing credentials recognized in Canada. Instead, he worked multiple precarious, low-wage jobs to support our family.
Pursuing nursing allowed me to carry on his legacy, and I sincerely looked forward to the opportunity to care for patients. I knew my journey wouldn’t be easy — the academic expectations were intense and there was the reality of having to balance that with several days a week completing practical training at the hospital. But nothing prepared me for the financial burdens I found staggering as I worked toward becoming a registered nurse.
In my second year, I was assigned to a clinical placement at a suburban hospital outside Edmonton with the expectation of being there by 6:30 a.m. for my first shift. It would have been my first experience in an acute care environment and I was already quite nervous. When I learned the hospital was two hours away from where I live by public transit (and that buses didn’t even run early enough for me to get there on time even if I tried), I was left scrambling.
With no other choice, I bought a used vehicle at the height of the pandemic-inflated surge in prices — a major expense I hadn’t seen coming but couldn’t avoid if I wanted to progress in the program. On top of the cost of tuition, books, certifications and supplies, the expense of the car — gas for the long commutes, costly parking fees for each shift and vehicle insurance — added hundreds of dollars to my limited budget each month.
To make matters worse, I had assumed there would be some form of financial compensation during clinical placements. That’s the case for students in fields like engineering or the trades who also complete hands-on training during their programs. However, nursing is an exception. None of the 1,400-plus clinical hours required for my program were paid.
For a while, I attempted to juggle various part-time jobs, such as working as a research assistant, with the demands of nursing school. This meant waking up at 5 a.m. for my clinical placement, followed by spending hours completing readings and assignments and catching up on work responsibilities while trying to maintain some semblance of a life. The strain took a toll on both my health and academic performance, and by the third year, the mounting pressures ultimately forced me to stop working despite the relentless expenses.
But I was lucky. I live at home with my family and their support in managing my living expenses was the only way I could have ever continued my studies without an income.
Many of my classmates weren’t so fortunate. More than a quarter of nursing students in Canada say the financial burden has made them consider quitting.
My clinical placements have been incredible learning opportunities to develop my skills and have given me the privilege of caring for patients. But as much as there were wonderful moments like supporting patients’ recoveries or the joy of a birth, caring for people also can take a heavy personal toll. Not only are threats and verbal abuse from patients all too common, but the routine exposure to infectious diseases also presents a very tangible health risk for me and my family.
Since the pandemic, health-care workers have been lauded as “heroes” seemingly non-stop.
However, praising heroism doesn’t mitigate any of the occupational hazards I have been exposed to during my training. It doesn’t address the emotional burden inherent in working in a clinical setting and it certainly doesn’t help offset the seemingly never-ending costs of nursing school.
I went into nursing to care for others, but it seems like there isn’t any care for me.
Amidst these pressures, I have questioned whether nursing is worth it. At times, it feels like I’m not being evaluated on my potential aptitude as a nurse, but instead on my ability to endure endless financial pressures amidst the intense workload of nursing school.
Sometimes it all feels hopeless.
When I have these doubts, I try to focus on my family and on the sacrifices they made to build a life in Canada. I want to carry forward the aspirations my father was denied. I think of the immense challenges he overcame, and it encourages me to withstand the structural unfairness in nursing education.
Facing nursing shortages, provincial governments are trying to recruit abroad. But these latest efforts have internationally educated nurses already in Canada feeling ignored.
I am in my final semester now, completing my preceptorship — my longest and most demanding placement yet. For 10 weeks, I have to work through 350 hours at the hospital, pulling 12-hour shifts day and night, weekends and holidays.
With the amount of money I had to spend on tuition this semester, according to my math, I’m essentially paying $8 per hour for this unpaid clinical placement. I’m eager to be near the finish line, so close to my dream of becoming a nurse. But I can’t help but be frustrated. The financial precarity of nursing school could be so easily prevented if there was the political will to address this inequity and equip students with financial support like paid clinical placements, which would in turn address the nursing shortage.
Yet I know by the fall there will be a new batch of students about to experience the same roller-coaster I have.
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