When people hear that I went from nursing administration to managing hotels, they usually tilt their head, squint, and try to connect the dots like I’ve just told them I left NASA to run a bakery. “That’s… quite a jump,” they say kindly, trying to hide the confusion. And to be fair, on paper? It is a jump. One day I was writing wound care protocols and handling Medicare audits. The next, I’m comping a room because someone’s waffle stuck in the iron and ruined their morning.
But let me tell you: this transition has been less “starting over” and more “drag-and-drop with a new name tag.”
Triage Is Triage, Whether It’s a Patient or a Pissed-Off Guest
In both nursing and hospitality, people come to you when something has gone horribly wrong. Maybe they’re sick. Maybe their toilet’s backing up on the third floor. Either way, they’re not in the mood for small talk. You’ve got seconds to assess, respond, and reassure them that you are the competent adult in the room.
That same calm I cultivated while coordinating emergency transfers now kicks in when a guest stomps to the front desk screaming about a mysterious stain on the duvet. (Is it chocolate? Is it blood? Let’s not find out. Let’s just fix it.) The crisis response muscles don’t atrophy, they just adapt.
HIPAA Taught Me Secrets, Hotels Gave Me Gossip
One of the first things you learn in nursing is how to keep a secret. HIPAA compliance is serious—violating it means lawsuits, job loss, and possibly ending up in a very awkward conversation with a lawyer who says words like “breach.” So I got good at hearing insane things and simply nodding.
That skill comes in very handy when you overhear a hotel guest explain to their boyfriend that her “husband won’t find out because he’s at a funeral in Houston.” Ma’am, this is a Candlewood Suites in Abilene, not Bravo. But sure. I’ll just nod, process your checkout, and mentally file this moment under “reasons I need a reality show.”
Emotional Management: From Grieving Families to Angry Wedding Parties
In long-term care, I had to console families who were processing guilt, grief, and the kind of sadness that can turn into rage at the nearest person in scrubs. In hotels, it’s not always grief—but it is often rage. Rage that the pool is closed. Rage that their room isn’t ready. Rage that their points didn’t post fast enough. And just like in nursing, the rage often isn’t really about you. It’s about life being unfair and expensive and disappointing. You learn not to take it personally. (You also learn to breathe deeply and mutter “serenity now” between guest interactions.)
Cross-Contamination is Real, Y’all
The Venn diagram between “people who don’t wash their hands before breakfast” and “people who want to talk to the manager at 6:03 a.m.” is a perfect circle. Working in healthcare teaches you a healthy distrust of public spaces. Hotels confirmed it.
Pro tip: Never trust a breakfast bar with a communal spoon. And if someone tells you “the gym floor was sticky,” you do not investigate with your hands.
Paperwork is Paperwork, but Hospitality Smells Better (Mostly)
There’s less charting, but just as much documentation. Daily logs, maintenance reports, service recovery tracking—it’s like nursing’s slightly more corporate cousin. The upside? Fewer ulcers. The downside? I now dream in Excel.
Oh, and no offense to the olfactory horrors of a med cart, but nothing—nothing—prepares you for walking into a room that’s been smoked in for a week straight by someone who “doesn’t even smoke” and “wasn’t in there much anyway.” Sure, Jan.
Leadership is Leadership, No Matter the Uniform
Whether I’m managing CNAs or front desk agents, leading a team requires the same three things: trust, clear communication, and snacks. People want to feel seen, respected, and occasionally bribed with donuts. I learned how to motivate people during double shifts with 40 patients and a broken lift. Managing housekeeping during a linen shortage? Easy.
So Why Did I Switch?
Honestly? Burnout. Grief. Cancer. Life. After 10+ years of life-and-death pressure, I wanted to use my skills in a setting that wouldn’t literally kill me. I still wanted to help people, lead teams, solve problems—but maybe without the beeping monitors and heartbreaking diagnoses. Hospitality gave me that outlet.
It also gave me weird guest stories, a chosen work family, and the kind of joy that comes from telling someone “Yes, we do have late checkout” and watching their whole face light up.
And every time I think I’ve left nursing behind, I get a reminder: skills don’t stay siloed. They follow you. They shape how you show up. Whether you’re passing meds or managing a weekend shift with a 100% occupancy rate and three birthday parties, it’s still service. It’s still care.
Just with slightly better lighting.