Stepping Into What I Wasn’t Prepared to Understand
As I wrote about yesterday, I am stepping into a new season.
A new role.
A new environment.
Next week, I begin orientation training at Gold Coast University Hospital, focused on learning how to care for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.
Even writing that now, it carries a weight that I don’t want to rush past.
This isn’t just training.
It’s not just another requirement before starting a job.
It feels like something deeper is unfolding.
And as I’ve sat with it today, reflecting on what I wrote yesterday, I’ve begun to realise that this moment may shape me in ways I don’t yet fully understand.
There are moments in life that appear ordinary on the surface.
A new job.
A new environment.
A new responsibility.
But beneath that surface, something else is happening.
Something quieter.
Something that doesn’t announce itself loudly, but reveals itself over time.
This feels like one of those moments.
When I think about stepping into a hospital again, I can’t separate that from my own story.
Hospitals are not neutral spaces for me.
They never have been.
They are places that hold memory.
Places that hold pain.
Places that hold moments where life felt uncertain, fragile, and completely out of my control.
From my earliest days, being born with complications, undergoing surgeries, growing up around operating rooms and recovery wards, my relationship with hospitals has always been personal.
And now, years later, I find myself returning.
But not as a patient.
Not as someone lying in a bed, waiting, hoping, enduring.
But as someone stepping into a role of care.
That shift alone is something I’m still processing.
Because it’s not just a change in position.
It’s a transformation in identity.
There was a time in my life where hospitals represented vulnerability.
Where I felt small.
Where I felt like everything happening around me was beyond my control.
And now I’m walking back into that same environment, not from a place of weakness, but from a place of responsibility.
Not to be cared for, but to learn how to care.
That is not a small transition.
And I don’t want to treat it lightly.
What adds even more weight to this moment is the specific focus of the training.
Learning how to care for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.
This is where I feel the need to slow down.
Because this is not just about learning procedures or protocols.
This is about people.
This is about culture.
This is about history.
This is about understanding lives shaped by experiences and realities that I have not personally lived.
If I’m honest, I don’t want to approach that casually.
I don’t want to treat it as something to get through.
I don’t want to come into it with assumptions.
Because the more I’ve sat with it, the more I’ve realised something simple but important.
Respect begins with recognising what you don’t know.
There is a humility required in stepping into spaces like this.
A willingness to listen.
A willingness to learn.
A willingness to be corrected and reshaped in your understanding.
Because real care is not just about what you do.
It’s about how you see.
I think that’s what this training is really about.
Not just learning how to provide care in a clinical sense.
But learning how to see people properly.
When I think about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities, I’m aware that there is a depth of history that stretches far beyond anything I can fully grasp in a single training session.
Generations.
Culture.
Connection to land.
Identity.
Loss.
Strength.
Resilience.
These are not abstract ideas.
They are lived realities.
And I think there is something deeply important about recognising that before even attempting to care.
Because without understanding, even at a basic level, care can become mechanical.
Detached.
Impersonal.
But real care requires something more.
It requires presence.
It requires awareness.
It requires a willingness to meet someone where they are, not where you assume they should be.
As I reflect on this, I can’t help but connect it back to my own journey.
Because there were seasons in my life where what I needed most wasn’t just treatment.
It wasn’t just solutions.
It was understanding.
It was someone seeing me, not just my condition, not just my situation, but me as a person.
And I think that’s where this becomes deeply personal again.
Because the kind of care I’m stepping into learning now is the kind of care I once needed.
That doesn’t make me an expert.
If anything, it makes me more aware of how much I still have to learn.
But it does give me something real to draw from.
Not theory.
Not information.
But lived experience.
I know what it feels like to be in a vulnerable position.
I know what it feels like to feel uncertain.
I know what it feels like to be in environments where you don’t fully understand what’s happening, but you have to trust the people around you.
And I think that awareness matters.
Because it shapes how you approach others.
It softens you.
It slows you down.
It reminds you that every person you encounter is carrying something you cannot always see.
And that’s especially important in a setting like this.
Because when you’re working with people from different cultural backgrounds, especially those who have experienced historical and systemic challenges, there is a responsibility to approach with care that goes beyond surface-level interaction.
This is not about being perfect.
It’s about being intentional.
As I think about stepping into this training next week, I find myself asking a simple question.
What kind of person do I want to be in this space?
Not just what do I need to know.
Not just what do I need to do.
But who do I need to be.
Because knowledge can be taught.
Procedures can be learned.
But posture comes from something deeper.
For me, that posture is rooted in something I’ve come to understand more clearly over time.
That every person carries value.
Not because of what they do.
Not because of where they come from.
But because they are created in the image of God.
That belief changes how you see people.
It removes distance.
It removes the idea that some lives matter more than others.
And when you bring that into a setting like a hospital, it transforms the way you approach care.
Because suddenly it’s not just about completing tasks.
It’s about honouring people.
This isn’t just a job.
It’s not just a role.
It’s not just a transition.
It’s an opportunity.
An opportunity to step into spaces that require more than skill.
More than knowledge.
More than efficiency.
Spaces that require patience.
Humility.
Awareness.
And genuine care.
I don’t say that lightly.
Because I know myself.
I know my past.
I know the areas where I’ve struggled.
The areas where I’m still growing.
This isn’t me stepping into something fully formed.
This is me stepping into something still being shaped.
And maybe that’s exactly the point.
Because the more I reflect on it, the more I realise something important.
You don’t step into moments like this because you’re ready.
You step into them because you’re willing to be formed through them.
That’s where I find myself now.
Standing on the edge of something new.
Not fully understanding it.
Not fully prepared for everything it will require.
But aware that it matters.
Aware that this is not just another step forward.
But a step deeper.
Into understanding.
Into responsibility.
Into something that will likely shape me in ways I cannot yet see.
As I move toward next week, toward the training, toward this new role, I’m not trying to have everything figured out.
I’m simply choosing to step in with the right posture.
To learn.
To listen.
To be shaped.
And to carry something with me that I’ve come to understand through my own journey.
Real care is not just about what you do for people.
It’s about how you see them.
And maybe this next season is going to teach me how to see more clearly than I ever have before.
About the Author
Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 1.7 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.
- Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
- Explore the Journey: Follow Dylan on Google Maps
- Connect on Instagram: @porkysparadise
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