Alejandra Rubio Arteaga: Healing in Two Languages
When I started my summer internship at the Children’s Hospital, I was nervous in a way I hadn’t felt before. I had spent years preparing in nursing school for this moment. I spent long nights of studying, memorizing medications and their effects, long clinical hours, and shadowing nurses. But nothing quite prepared me for what it would mean to be there, just my preceptor and me, in an environment I wasn’t familiar with.
As I stepped into the hospital as an extern, I immediately noticed the completely different pace. Everything was fast, emotional, and deeply human.
As a first-generation Mexican American and the first in my family to study anything in healthcare, I carried more than just my textbooks and scrubs into the hospital. I carried my family’s sacrifices, their dreams, and the hope that I could make something better not only for myself but also for the communities that raised me.
I was assigned to the pediatrics floor. Every morning began with the sound of monitors beeping softly and the voices of night-shift nurses giving reports to the day-shift nurses. The floor was painted in bright colors to lift our young patients’ spirits. Our theme was the Arctic, so penguins and polar bears covered the walls, alongside crafts and colorful decorations. But behind those cheerful walls were stories of strength and heartbreak.
Going into this experience, I thought my focus would be on improving my clinical skills such as medication administration, checking vitals, updating charts, and shadowing my preceptor. But soon I realized that the heart of nursing wasn’t just about skills. It was about people.
On my first day, my preceptor told me we’d begin by getting reports on all the patients before doing our first rounds.
The first room we entered, I remember it being room 6417, held a seven-year-old girl admitted for facial swelling. I remember she was laying on the bed, wearing a hospital gown with a big pink bow in her hair while her parents stood beside her.
The doctor was already there, speaking through a virtual translator on a screen for the parents, who spoke only Spanish. I could see their discomfort as they waited for delayed translations or repeated themselves when the connection cut off mid-sentence. Both parents nodded to show they understood the doctor, but their eyes looked confused and tired.
At that moment, I wanted to step in and ensure they really do understand what is being said about their daughter’s treatment plan, but it was my first day, and I didn’t want to overstep.
After the doctor left, my preceptor and I introduced ourselves. I said, “Hola! ¡Me llamo Alejandra! Mucho gusto en conocerlos. Soy estudiante de enfermería y voy a estar aquí todo el día para ayudar con lo que se les ofrezca,” translating to, “Hello! I’m Alejandra! It 's very nice to meet y’all. I am a nursing student, and I’ll be here all day to help with anything you might need.”
As we left the room, my preceptor asked if I’d be comfortable translating. I told her I’d be more than happy to help in any way I could to facilitate effective communication.
That first day on the unit was amazing. My preceptor was kind and did a lot of teaching. I learned so much from our patients that day. By the end of my shift, I felt a deep sense of purpose. I thought to myself, this is only my first shift of many this summer, and I already love this unit.
At shift change, my preceptor and I went to say goodbye to our patients. When we entered the Spanish-speaking family’s room, the mother looked at me and said, “Gracias, mija. Dios te bendiga.” Something inside me shifted. At that moment, I realized I wasn’t just translating words, I was translating care.
From that day on, I became an unofficial bridge between the medical team and many Hispanic families on the floor. Some of the other nurses started asking for my help when they needed to explain discharge instructions or describe a procedure to parents. It was exhausting at times, balancing my learning responsibilities with the emotional work of interpreting, but it also felt deeply meaningful.
It was then that I understood why I had chosen nursing. It wasn’t just about medicine. It was about connection.
Another moment that has stayed with me was when a young boy was admitted with severe abdominal pain. Tests revealed he had appendicitis and needed surgery. His mother, who spoke limited English, tried to comfort him but didn’t understand what was happening or what the treatment plan involved.
One of the nurses asked me to help translate. I sat next to the mother and explained what the doctors had found. I explained that surgery was necessary, what to expect afterwards, the discharge goals, and how she would be updated throughout the process. As I spoke, her eyes filled with tears. Not from fear, but from relief.
She thanked me softly and said in Spanish, “Thank you so much. I’m so glad we have someone like you who chose a career like this to help us.”
Afterwards, I felt something deep inside me heal. Growing up, I often watched my parents struggle to communicate in clinics. I remember the frustration in their voices, the helplessness of not being fully understood. As a child, I would try to help them translate, even when I didn’t understand all the words myself.
Standing there in my scrubs years later, helping families like mine, I realized I had become the person my younger self needed.
On a personal level, this summer healed something in me I didn’t even know was broken. For so long, I felt the weight of being the “first” in my family, the pressure to succeed, to justify every sacrifice my parents made. But at the Children’s Hospital, surrounded by families who reminded me of my own, I stopped feeling like I had to prove myself. Instead, I started to belong.
The same language that once made me feel different became my greatest strength. The same cultural background that once set me apart became the bridge that connected me to others.
When I look back on that summer now, I see more than just a hospital internship. I see a story of identity and growth. I see the faces of the children I helped comfort, the gratitude of the parents I translated for, and the quiet confidence I found in myself.
Nursing is not just my career path. It is my way of giving back to the community that raised me.
As I continue on this path, I carry with me not only clinical skills but also a deeper understanding of what it means to care. I’ve learned that healing is not one-sided. Sometimes, in caring for others, we end up healing ourselves too.
Alejandra Rubio Arteaga is from West Columbia, SC. She is graduating in spring 2026 with a Bachelors of Science in Nursing. She did her nursing externship over the 2025 summer at Prisma Health in Richland. Alejandra plans on being a pediatric ICU nurse after graduation.