12/27/2025
☘️The Crown We Were Never Meant to Wear ☘️
There is a kind of entitlement that quietly seeps into the human heart—an invisible crown we place on our own heads, convincing ourselves that we deserve to be served, obeyed, prioritized, and pleased. It’s the belief that our wants are urgent, our frustrations justified, our words permissible simply because we feel them.
And yet, when I look at the life of Christ—the One who had every right to demand honor but instead chose profound humility—I’m struck by the contrast. The God who could command the universe washed feet. The One who could summon angels carried a cross. The King of Kings was born in a manger—the least place—when He deserved a throne.
If God Himself modeled humility, how did we humans become so entitled?
As a nurse, I’ve seen entitlement up close—its sharp edges, its blind spots, its unintended cruelty. One day in particular still sits heavy in my memory. It was one of those shifts where it felt like juggling fire with one hand tied. Six patients, all with urgent needs. Six lives depending on my judgment, my speed, my presence.
I was moving room to room nonstop—vital signs, medications, assessments, blood draws, stat calls, CT scans, tele alerts, an elderly patient trying to get out of bed, another showing signs of sepsis, another possibly having a stroke.
And then came the complaint.
A patient insisted I hadn’t checked on him “for hours,” despite the fact that I had been in his room just an hour earlier. He demanded to see the nurse leader. The leader, hearing only his version, was upset with me.
Meanwhile, he was not the one struggling to breathe.
Not the one whose blood pressure was crashing due to sepsis.
Not the one whose heart rate was 160 at rest.
Not the one who needed a CT scan within 30 minutes due to stroke.
Not the 82‑year‑old trying to climb out of bed.
He was simply the one who was impatient for discharge details.
And yet, his voice carried the most weight that day.
This Is the Hard‑Core Lesson:
The pain wasn’t in the task—it was in what it revealed about us as humans.
Entitlement makes us believe our inconvenience is more important than someone else’s emergency. It convinces us that our frustration is more valid than another person’s exhaustion. It tells us our expectations justify our tone, our words, our demands. It whispers that our needs must be met immediately, even when they are not urgent.
In hospitals, this shows up often. Not in everyone, but in enough moments to leave a mark. Some patients and families treat nurses as if we are hotel staff—expecting room‑service speed for water, blankets, socks, or comfort items.
And then there is the other side—the institutional side. Not malicious, but often disconnected. Not intentionally dehumanizing, but unintentionally forgetting that nurses are humans.
I still remember a huddle where a nurse leader said, “You are paid to do your job.” No acknowledgment of the impossible load. No recognition of the emotional weight. Just a reminder to keep going, like robots. In that moment, I felt myself go numb. Not because I didn’t care—but because I had cared too much for too long.
Humility, on the other hand, opens our eyes. It softens our tone. It slows our reactions. It reminds us that we are not the center of the universe. And if Jesus—who began His life in the lowest place—chose humility over entitlement, then surely we can choose it too.
Reflection:
Before we speak, demand, complain, or assume, what would change if we paused and asked: “Am I wearing a crown I was never meant to wear?”
Because the world would be gentler, hospitals would be kinder, and humanity would feel a little more like the God who showed us what humility truly looks like.
