Recently, I took a short break from social media. What began as a break from posting and scrolling became something much more meaningful. It felt like a detox for my mind and energy, a chance to quiet the outside noise and check in with my spirit, my nervous system, and my overall well-being.

When the noise settled, I was able to step back and see the path I had been walking from a broader perspective. I returned to a question that has guided many important decisions in my life:

Am I living authentically?

After the violent workplace attack that ended my bedside nursing career, I wanted to rescue every nurse from working in a hospital. Hospitals felt profoundly unsafe to me, and I could not understand why executives and healthcare leaders did not seem to be doing more to protect the professionals entrusted with caring for patients within their institutions.

With time and healing, I began to recognize that some of that urgency was my trauma response. My nervous system had learned that the hospital was dangerous, and I was projecting my own fight-or-flight response onto the lives and choices of others.

Recognizing this did not make my concerns about workplace violence any less valid. Healthcare professionals continue to face unacceptable risks as violent attacks remain on the rise. I will never waver from my goal to ensure institutions are held accountable for addressing this issue and creating safer environments. What changed was my belief that the answer was for nurses to abandon hospitals altogether.

My healing path helped me realize that the answer cannot simply be for all nurses to walk away from their patients, careers, and profession. This is our profession. We have devoted our lives, education, skill, experience, and hearts to it. We should not have to surrender it because systems have failed to protect us.

We must reclaim our nursing profession, not abandon it.

That realization initially emboldened me to become louder and more forceful. I believed that holding institutions accountable meant strong-arming them into action. There are powerful advocates, especially on social media, doing assertive work extraordinarily well, and I respect and applaud them. Public pressure, organizing, and protest have their place in creating change.

But as I watched others using their platforms and feeling I needed to post similar content to amplify the message, I began asking myself a different question:

Does that align with who I am?

I believe my personal story is provocative and loud enough that it can be used to evoke meaningful change. I am writing a memoir centered around my attack and my life that existed before and after it. I continue to consider creating a podcast that would offer a platform to healthcare professionals who have felt unheard or voiceless. I want to participate in conversations about safety, burnout, balance, and the future of our profession.

I originally approached social media with a practical goal. As I prepare to publish my memoir, professionals in the publishing field have encouraged me to build an audience and, even more importantly, an email list of readers who may eventually support the book. Social media seemed like the expected path to reach them. So I entered the familiar cycle of posting, tracking followers, and directing people to my website to subscribe. I gained a few followers, but even fewer email subscribers. During my break, I found myself asking a simple question:

If this approach is not working, and pursuing it is draining me, why not choose a different path?

I do not say this in judgment of those who enjoy creating content or successfully build their work through social media. I support their work. It simply does not align with my personality or the way I want to live. I am at a place in my life where I have little tolerance for continuing along a path that feels wrong simply because society has decided it is the path we are supposed to take. If I use these platforms, I want to do so genuinely and with purpose, not to add more noise merely for the sake of remaining visible. I would rather build a thoughtful community around a shared voice and common purpose than chase attention through clickbait. I want to create space for authenticity and connect with people who are genuinely interested in being part of the solution, not simply part of the noise.

I have lived much of my life assertively. I came from a difficult background and entered adulthood carrying many disadvantages I had to work hard to overcome. In many seasons, that strength helped me survive, move forward, and protect others. Along the way, I proved something, not to the world, but to myself, the person whose acceptance I needed most: I am worthy, I am capable, and I have always carried within me what I needed to create a meaningful and successful life.

I have entered a softer, more peaceful season, one in which strength no longer has to mean constantly pushing, fighting, or enduring.

I do not see softness as acquiescence, silence, or passivity. I see it as acceptance, peace, and what I have been striving for. It does not mean that I will stop posting to social media, speaking difficult truths, joining important conversations, or holding institutions accountable. It means I will carry this work forward through a different approach.

Softness is not the absence of strength. It is strength no longer governed by survival.

It is the ability to respond deliberately rather than being driven by urgency, outrage, or fear. It is recognizing that I can be both peaceful and powerful. I can remain firmly committed to change without living perpetually in the energy of confrontation.

This reflection has also required me to examine what leadership means. If I hope to have a place of leadership in conversations about healthcare safety, burnout, and balance, then I must be willing to do the inner work and live what I teach.

I cannot encourage healthcare professionals to protect their peace while pursuing advocacy in a way that costs me my own.

I cannot speak about burnout while continually depleting myself to remain visible.

Finding balance requires more than changing a schedule or removing a few obligations. It requires returning to our core, recognizing what no longer aligns with us, and having the courage to adjust accordingly.

I still intend to use my voice. I still want to participate in gatherings and difficult conversations. I want to engage healthcare professionals, organizational leaders, lawmakers, and nursing organizations, especially those with the platform and credibility to help create systemic change. But I want to approach this work mindfully and deliberately.

Moral outrage can draw attention to an injustice. Accountability remains necessary. But thoughtful dialogue may help us remain at the table long enough to create sustainable change. I want to help build conversations in which people feel heard, challenged, and invited to listen.

This is not a retreat from my mission. It is a realignment with it.

I am asking where I can make the greatest impact without losing myself or wasting the peace and energy I have fought so hard to restore. I am considering where my voice can be of greatest benefit to nurses and other healthcare professionals while remaining true to the person I am becoming.

My mission remains the same:

Protect the profession. Restore the professional.

I am simply learning to carry it forward with a different kind of strength, and to trust the path that is authentically mine, even when I cannot yet see what may be waiting on the other side.

Where in your own life might you be called to choose a different path, not because your destination has changed, but because you have?

If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to subscribe to my Substack for future essays, join my email list on my website for book and professional updates, and walk alongside me as we explore what it means to create meaningful change without losing ourselves in the process.

Until next time, keep shining brightly ✨

Tammy 🤍

^{(Photo taken in the Tuscan countryside by my former husband, Michael, during our final trip to Italy together. My curious and adventurous nature drew me to this path along the side of the road, and I insisted that we stop so I could discover where it led. On the other side, I found only an open field filled with wildflowers and butterflies; well beyond was a farmhouse, yet somehow, it felt like enough. Butterflies have always symbolized transformation and peace to me. Perhaps that is what our journeys are about: trusting the path, remaining open to discovery, and allowing ourselves to be transformed along the way, and most of all, peace.)}

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I’ve been a little quiet here lately, but not because life has been quiet.

I’ve been doing podcasts, with another coming later this month, and working steadily on my memoir with my editor at KN Literary Arts. I’ve also been trying to rebuild my little corner of social media on Instagram after Meta deleted my Facebook account—which has been an adventure of its own.

And thankfully, there has been life beyond work.

My beautiful, fun daughter-in-law came to visit, and we had such a wonderful time together. Soon after, my best friend visited, bringing with her the kind of long, rich conversations I didn’t realize how much I needed.

So, I’m back.

And for this Substack, I’m sharing something particularly personal: an excerpt from Chapter Ten of my memoir. It is one of the more spiritual portions of the book, and to understand where it begins, I need to take you briefly to the night before.

In Chapter Nine, I write about a night my first week home from the hospital, waking up in severe pain. When I opened my eyes, I saw what appeared to be angels surrounding my bed from head to toe, perhaps a dozen of them, illuminated in the brightest white light.

Because part of a muscle in my neck had been severed during the attack, I could not turn my head without lifting it with my hand. That night, my head had fallen into a position that caused excruciating pain that woke me up. The angel beside my head reached toward me, placed a hand against the left side of my face near my chin, and gently turned my head to the right.

Immediately, the pain disappeared.

Not only from my head and neck, but from my entire body.

For a moment, I simply lay there in a state of complete relief. Then, as the astonishment of what had happened registered, my mind filled with questions. I wanted to ask them so many questions.

But they were already gone.

The brilliant light disappeared, the room returned to darkness, and yet my body remained almost euphoric.

Chapter Ten begins the following morning.

Chapter Ten

^{Finding Balance}

I woke the next morning with an inexplicable peace.

The pain had begun to return, though not with the intensity I had known before the angel touched me. When I stood and walked, I felt strangely unbalanced, as though I couldn’t fully feel the floor beneath my feet. I assumed it was some combination of the wounds to my ear, the medications, and the emotional daze of trying to comprehend something that still seemed impossible:

I had survived my attempted murder.

The more I contemplated the brutality of the attack and the improbability of my survival, the more dreamlike it all became.

And yet, I stepped into that morning with a lightness in my heart.

Perhaps the imbalance I felt was more than physical. It seemed as though I had one foot in this world and one in a spiritual realm, a dichotomy reflected back at me each time I looked in the mirror. One half of my face was the familiar, smiling face I had always known. The other was motionless, unable to reveal emotion or expression.

I began to wonder whether this paradox was part of surviving a brush with death: to remain fully here while somehow having glimpsed something beyond.

While in surgery just after my attack, to save my life, I had what I can describe as an out-of-body experience as I watched from above the presence of a warrior angel hovering over my body as I lay near death. Now, as I lay wounded and surrendered at home in my bed, I had experienced what I believed to be a host of angels tending to my suffering.

After that, the world carried a different weight.

Ordinary moments no longer seemed entirely ordinary. Something in my perception had shifted, as though a curtain had been pulled back and I had been given the briefest glimpse of a reality that had always existed beyond what I could see.

I began to perceive life less through my physical eyes and more through what I can only describe as the eyes of my soul.

I saw people differently.

Beneath our personalities, our wounds, our defenses, our failures, and everything we use to define ourselves, I began to see something radiant, a divine essence, a light. And with that came a compassion for humanity unlike anything I had known before.

I also began recognizing something in the eyes of people who had endured profound suffering.

There is a haunting depth.

I have seen it in those who have faced death, devastating loss, violence, or trauma and somehow emerged from the other side. Sometimes I sense a kinship before a word is spoken. Their eyes seem to carry a wisdom that could only have been earned by traveling somewhere none of us would willingly choose to go.

There can be a quiet strength in them. A tenderness. A peaceful resolve.

Not because suffering makes us superior, nor because trauma is something I would ever romanticize or wish upon another human being. But sometimes, after witnessing extraordinary cruelty, we become capable of recognizing extraordinary beauty and compassion.

There are truths I could not understand before I suffered.

I wish I could have learned them another way.

Words still fail me when I try to explain the transformation that can follow profound trauma. For me, it felt as though surviving had loosened my attachment to the material world. I was still here, still inhabiting my wounded human body, yet some part of me now knew, beyond a doubt, this physical existence was not the entirety of who we are. I always knew there was life beyond, but now it was not just a belief, but a knowing.

That is why I began thinking of our light as something meant to be shared.

Perhaps we are here, at least in part, to live from the light we have discovered within ourselves from our own darkness, not to tell others what to believe or where to look, but to help illuminate the way as they seek and discover their own light within.

I was forever changed by the weight of what happened that night.

Beyond the veil of our physical existence, I saw what felt to me more real than this material world. We are more than our bodies. We are spirits inhabiting them.

In truth, I had felt this knowing long before the attack, as though I had always straddled two realms. One part of me firmly tethered to this earth, the other reaching toward something I could sense but never quite touch. Call it heaven. Call it other realms. Whatever it is, I felt it, and it is beyond words. It is beautiful and exciting, and feels like home. A part of me cannot wait to return, as I know it will be a great adventure. Until then, I have much to do here.

It was bittersweet, in fact, nearly cruel: to feel the presence of a limitless life beyond, while still bound to the limitations of a severely damaged mortal body.

I was learning to live somewhere between the two.

I was learning to find my balance.

🪽 I still don’t have an explanation for what happened while I was in surgery or that night in my bed. Perhaps I never will.

What I do know is that I experienced the presence of celestial beings. I felt the touch against my face. I felt my head turn. I felt the pain leave my body. And when the room returned to darkness, something within me had changed.

I share this not to tell anyone what to believe, but because it is part of my story, and maybe you have experienced something similar, or it ignites a light within to seek deeper meaning.

Perhaps, just perhaps, that was the meaning of it all, not to give me the answers, but to awaken the spirit within me to seek what I had yet to find.

There are experiences in life that seem to exist beyond the reach of language or reason. We can spend years trying to explain them, or we can allow them to remain sacred mysteries and simply ask what they awakened within us.

For me, that night awakened something I am still discovering.

Perhaps the veil between what we can see and what we can only sense is thinner than we imagine.

And perhaps every once in a while, we are given a glimpse beyond it.

Thank you for being here and for allowing me to share these deeply personal pieces of my story with you. As I continue working on my memoir, I hope to share more excerpts here along the way.

Until next time, keep shining brightly, ✨

Tammy 🤍

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Thank you so much for following my page, story, and for your support.

And now for my shameless plug 😂
If my story resonates with you, I’d be honored if you would follow my professional Facebook page, Tammy Scott, and visit tammyscottrn.com to sign up for updates on my memoir Frontline Survivor, advocacy work through The Nightingale Front, speaking events, and future projects. ✨

Apparently publishers like to see things like followers and email subscribers these days 😂 — so every follow, share, and subscription genuinely helps support my book proposal for Frontline Survivor. More importantly, it helps grow this community of healing, advocacy, and meaningful change. 🤍

Together, we create change. 🩺

Forever Grateful,
Tammy🤍

I’m so honored to share a deeply personal excerpt from my memoir, Frontline Survivor

There are passages we read at one point in our lives that touch us gently… and then there are passages that return to us later and split us open.

Years before I was attacked, I came across The Story of the Bamboo. At the time, I thought it was simply a beautiful reflection on purpose, surrender, and perseverance. I admired it. I highlighted it. I carried it with me quietly.

But after the attack — after trauma, loss, grief, disfigurement, fear, and the long journey of rebuilding my identity and spirit — I read it again.

This time, it did not feel like a story.

It felt like truth.

As many of you know, I live with permanent facial paralysis from my attack. There have been moments where I struggled deeply with the visible changes to my face and with reconciling who I once was with who I had become. Yet somewhere within that journey, I found a freedom I never expected.

A freedom beyond perfection.
A freedom beyond ego.
A freedom rooted in spirit.

That is why this quote by C.S. Lewis speaks so deeply to me:

“But who can feel ugly when their heart feels joy?”
— C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

Today, I want to share with you a deeply profound section from Chapter 13 of my memoir, Frontline Survivor.

“Several years before my attack, I came across a poignant story known as The Story of the Bamboo. Reading it again now feels much like revisiting a cherished quote, poem, or sacred text. We may encounter something deeply meaningful at one point in life, yet when we return to it in another season, it feels entirely new. Its wisdom seems to expand, shift, and deepen alongside us. Our lives unfold much like the chapters of a well-worn book, each season offering its own lessons, revelations, and perspective. Looking back, it feels as though this story had been waiting patiently for the right moment to fully reveal its meaning to me.

I remember first reading the passage and seeing it simply as a beautiful story about purpose and perseverance. But after my attack, its meaning became profoundly different. As I shared in a previous chapter, I have come to believe that we enter this life already aware, on some level, of the challenges we will face — almost as if we volunteer for them in order to grow our souls and be of service to others. Reading the story again no longer felt like reading an inspiring metaphor. It felt like validation. What once seemed like a beautiful story now felt deeply personal, almost sacred, as though it had quietly prepared me for the journey I would one day have to endure.

Allow me to share it with you:

“Once upon a time in the heart of the Western Kingdom lay a beautiful garden. And there in the cool of the day the Master of the garden liked to walk. Of all the creatures of the garden, the most beautiful and most beloved was a gracious and noble bamboo tree. Year after year Bamboo grew yet more noble and beautiful, conscious of her Master’s love and watchful delight, but always modest and gentle. And often, when the wind came to revel in the garden, Bamboo would cast aside her grave stateliness to dance and play merrily, tossing and swaying and leaping and bowing in joyous abandon, leading the Great Dance of the Garden, which delighted the Master’s heart.

Now, one day the Master sat down to contemplate his Bamboo with eyes of curious expectancy. Bamboo, in a passion of adoration, bowed her great head to the ground in loving greeting. The Master spoke:

“Bamboo, I would use you.”

Bamboo flung her head to the sky in utter delight. The day of days had come, the day for which she had been made, the day to which she had been growing, hour by hour, the day in which she would find her completion and her destiny. Her voice came softly:

“Master, I am ready. Use me as you will!”

“Bamboo,” – the Master’s voice was grave, “I would like take you and cut you down.”

“Cut … me … down! Me, whom you, Master, have made the most beautiful in all your garden … cut me down! Not that, not that. Use me for your joy, O Master, but cut me not down!”

“Beloved Bamboo,” – the Master’s voice grew graver still – “if I do not cut you down, I cannot use you.

The garden grew still … Wind held his breath. Bamboo slowly bent her proud and glorious head.

There came a whisper: “Master, if you cannot use me unless you cut me down … then … do your will and cut!”

“Bamboo, beloved Bamboo, I need to cut your leaves and your branches from you also.”

“Master, Master, please spare me. Cut me down and lay my beauty in the dust, but would you also take from me my leaves and branches?”

“Bamboo, if I do not cut them away, I cannot use you.”

The Sun hid his face. A listening butterfly glided fearfully away. And Bamboo shivered in terrible expectancy, whispering low, “Master, cut away.”

“Bamboo, Bamboo, I would also split you in two and cut out your heart, for if I don’t, I cannot use you.”

Then, Bamboo bowed to the ground: “Master, Master … then cut me and split me.”

So did the Master of the garden took Bamboo and cut her down and hacked off her branches and stripped off her leaves and cleaved her in two and cut out her heart. And lifting her gently, he carried her to where there was a spring of fresh, sparkling water in the midst of his dry fields. Then, putting one end of broken Bamboo into the spring and the other end into the water channel in his field, the Master laid down gently his beloved Bamboo. The clear sparkling water raced joyously down the channel of Bamboo’s torn body into the waiting fields. Then the rice was planted and the days went by, and the shoots grew, and the harvest came.

In that day was Bamboo, once so glorious in her stately beauty, yet more glorious in her brokenness and humility. For in her beauty she was life abundant, but in her brokenness she became a channel of abundant life to her Master’s world!”

— The Year of the Heart of Spirituality Lovers by Daniel J. O’Leary

This is my story. I am not a victim; I am Bamboo — more beautiful in my breaking, more radiant in my perfect imperfection. In my essence, I am a fractal of God, carrying within me both the wound and the light.

I am a survivor, but more than that, I am abundant. What once sought to destroy me became the very passage through which my spirit awakened. I have traveled beyond ego, beyond fear, beyond scarcity and suffering, and there I discovered something eternal: an infinite well of love, faith, resilience, and truth.

In my brokenness, I became a channel. A vessel through which others might find hope, courage, healing, and their own path to freedom.

I found my purpose. I found my spirit. I found the truth. And the truth is this: love is truth, and truth is love. It lives within me. It is me.

I am no longer afraid.
I am free.

As I continue revisiting and refining Frontline Survivor for publishing, my hope is that these words remind others that even in our deepest breaking, there can still be meaning, beauty, purpose, and ultimately freedom. If this story touched your heart, I would be deeply grateful if you shared this post with someone who may need hope, encouragement, or simply the reminder that they are not alone in their suffering. Your support and sharing help these conversations reach more people — not only survivors of trauma, but anyone searching for light in difficult seasons of life.

To follow my journey, receive updates on the memoir, advocacy work, podcast conversations, speaking events, and future writings, please sign up for updates on my website tammyscottrn.com.

Forever grateful, with love,
Tammy 🤍

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Last week, I hosted a small watch party here, where I now live, in Southern California, for the premiere of Suck It Up, Buttercup. Most of the friends gathered in that room had never known me during the earliest, most brutal days of my aftermath. They didn’t see the hollow shock, the pain, the paralysis, or the way trauma rearranged every part of my life. But they have walked beside me through one of the many later phases—the one where I arrived here with only my car, some clothes, and a handful of personal belongings, unsure what my next chapter would look like.

Leaving Missouri was both necessary and heartbreaking. It carried some of my worst memories—and also many of my best. My sons had moved away, I have no immediate family, and though I had dear friends, I knew I couldn’t rebuild in the place that left me broken. If I were going to piece myself back together, I wanted to do it in the place I’d dreamt of living for decades.

And truthfully?
Southern California has been a balm to my spirit in ways I didn’t expect.
There is something about standing barefoot in the sand, breathing in the ocean air, letting the tide wash over my ankles. It has been sustenance unlike anything else—nourishment beyond food, beyond therapy, beyond anything a prescription could offer. The warmth of the sunshine, the steady rhythm of the waves, and the endless horizon have quietly helped me find my footing again.

When I looked around the room at the watch party, I saw faces that were still new in my life, yet had held my hand, hugged me tightly, and sat with me through the tears. These friends—people who never knew my “before”—told me they were inspired by my strength. And in that moment, something shifted in me. I realized how far I had drifted from my mission. I had been drowning in sadness, financial fear, and the heavy weight of survival.

My abundance has never lived in my bank account.
It has always lived in my spirit, my resilience, and my heart.

I’ve promised many times that I would finish editing and publishing my memoir. But the truth is, even opening it felt unbearable. Some days, breathing was the only task I could manage.

Then December came—and with it, a severe GI illness that hospitalized me. Even now, it isn’t fully resolved. No doctor has given me a definitive cause, but I know how deeply stress has carved its way through my body. I felt myself shrinking—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Still no workers’ compensation settlement. Still no continued trauma care. And a growing feeling that the hospital I had given so many years of my expertise, heart, and devotion wished I would simply disappear. My healing has certainly been a rollercoaster. Just when I feel great and ready to carry on, pain, fear, depression, and anxiety knock me back down.

Yet in the midst of all this, there has finally been progress.
Workers’ comp appears to be moving toward an agreement, and although money doesn’t heal trauma, it does create stability, opportunity, and freedom. It means I can pay my bills. It means I can fly to Florida to hold my new grandson, born in October, whose tiny smile fills my heart with a joy I desperately needed. It means breathing room—and breathing room is its own kind of healing.

After watching the documentary with people who have become family, something inside me cleared. I felt the fog lift enough to remember my purpose: to be a voice for nurses, physicians, and healthcare workers who endure violence, threats, and unsafe conditions while simply trying to care for others. Many are begging for change. Many are ignored. Some, like me, pay a devastating price.

And then, just as that clarity was returning, news broke close to home here in California—another nurse attacked, this time strangled by a patient. Hearing that was like having the wind knocked out of me. A sickening reminder that what happened to me is not an isolated story. It was a reminder of the promise I made to myself, to my colleagues, and to my healthcare family:
I would not leave anyone behind. I HAVE to complete my mission.
The violence is still happening. The systems are still failing. And too many of us are still falling through the cracks.

With that renewed urgency, I reopened my book. I revisited my social media. I reconnected with people who share this mission. I began picking up everything I had dropped during my own collapse. And in doing so, I felt myself emerging—more focused, more grounded, and more determined to speak loudly and unapologetically.

I recently reconnected with the editing team for my memoir, and during our conversation, the editor paused and said, “It sounds like you’re finding your voice again.” Her words struck something deep. I told her that the two things I value most in life are freedom and never losing my voice. I shared with her the moment I first woke up in the ICU—the shock of remembering what had happened, the terror of realizing I’d been stabbed in the neck. With the intubation tube still in my throat, I panicked, urgently motioning for a pen and paper. The ICU nurse handed them to me, and one of the first things I scribbled was, “Can I still talk?” He nodded and said yes, but I wasn’t satisfied. I laugh about it now, but it wasn’t distrust in him—it was out of pure fear of losing my voice.

As I told her that story, something hit me: I survived. I kept my voice. But I haven’t been using it the way I promised—to fight for the changes needed to protect healthcare workers. That realization was an indictment… and a spark. It reminded me exactly why I must pick up where I left off.

To those of you who continued to follow me through my silence, I offer both gratitude and apologies. This move, this long season without income or medical care, this confusing and lonely phase of the aftermath—it has been one of the hardest stretches of my life, harder, in many ways, than the initial trauma.

But the ground is beginning to steady.
My direction is sharpening.
My identity is returning.

I am not just a survivor.
I am magic, capable of anything I choose to create.

Thank you for staying. Thank you for believing.

More updates are coming soon—including excerpts from my memoir Frontline Survivor as I push it forward with renewed strength and clarity.

Keep Shining Brightly!

Much Love,
Tammy

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Yet here it is.
A powerful new documentary, Suck It Up, Buttercup, is shining a spotlight on what really happens behind the scenes in hospitals — the violence, the silence, the pressure to see more patients in an unrealistic amount of time, and the system that protects executives instead of the people who save lives.

This film isn’t just about me.
It’s about all of us — the nurses, techs, and frontline staff who show up every day, risking their safety to care for others while being told to “suck it up” when the system fails us.

🎥 Watch the Documentary Here:

Why This Matters

When I was attacked, I believed the hospital would protect me, advocate for me, and ensure justice. Instead, I was met with silence, legal red tape, and a workers’ comp system that continues to drag its feet.

While I’ve received no financial gain from this film, what I hope to gain — what we all deserve — is awareness, accountability, and change.

This documentary honors not just my story, but the stories of so many others who were betrayed by the same system we dedicated our lives to serving.

To Every Nurse and Healthcare Worker Reading This

If you’ve ever felt invisible…
If you’ve ever been told to keep quiet, move on, don’t press charges, they won’t prosecute anyway, or “You signed up for this,” — this film is for you.

Your story matters.
Your safety matters.
You matter.

To Every Person Who’s Ever Trusted the System

If you’ve ever waited in an ER for help, felt invisible when you needed care…
If you’ve ever believed that hospitals were safe places, run by people who put patients and staff first — this film is for you.

Because what happens behind those doors doesn’t just affect nurses and doctors.
It affects you — the patients, the families, the communities that rely on a system that is quietly breaking the very people sworn to protect it.

When healthcare workers are silenced, overworked, or unsafe, everyone is at risk.

This documentary isn’t just our story.
It’s yours too.

Your awareness matters.
Your voice matters.
You matter.

💬 Watch. Share. Speak up.
We can’t fix what we refuse to face — but together, we can make them listen.

🎥 See the project page and about the production crew: Suck It Up, Buttercup

From tragedy came truth.
From pain came purpose.

“Suck It Up, Buttercup” is not just a documentary — it’s a mirror held up to a system that has lost its humanity. My hope is that by watching, you begin to see not only what’s broken, but what can still be healed.

Thank you for standing beside us — for listening, believing, and caring.
This is how change begins.

Keep Shinig Brightly,
— Tammy Scott, RN

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I share this poem not for attention, but with deep compassion for you, and for whatever ghosts may still linger within. We all carry shadows, and too often, we build the cages ourselves, mistaking them for protection.

But the truth is: you hold the key.
You always have.

Only you can open the door. Only you can set yourself free.
Because, in the end, it was you, out of pain, survival, or fear, who locked it shut.

I offer this piece in the hope that it might be a catalyst, a gentle invitation to begin making peace with what still echoes inside.

May it help soften what’s been tightly held.

May it remind you that healing doesn’t come from holding on, but from letting go.
And may it open the way toward your freedom—one ghost, one breath, one moment at a time.

Piercing Surrender poem below

Piercing Surrender

When the Wound Becomes the Release

~I once saw myself as a house. Serene in appearance, but haunted deep within.

Inhabited by the old ghosts of abuse, sadness, tragedy, fear, and death.

So I closed the windows. Locked the doors. Drew the shades tightly shut.

Not only to hide the darkness within but to trap it, so it wouldn't spill into the world

and infect another tender soul.

I thought it noble. A sacred sacrifice. To hold the weight of sorrow, to carry the burden alone.

I believed my strength divine, my spirit forged to absorb the poison so others could remain pure.

But now I see that belief was the whisper of ego masquerading as martyrdom. A prideful illusion that no soul could hold what I could.

That only I was made to cradle the grief of generations.

But Spirit has whispered truth into me. When I release what is not mine to keep, it harms no one.

No ghost goes rushing to haunt another heart once vacating mine.

No traumatic memory seeks a new home.

Instead, they rise up and out, returning to our Creator for cleansing, for transformation.

Now, as old memories stir, I don’t flinch.

I don’t fear.

They are no longer tormentors.

They are teachers.

They are sacred fire,

meant to refine me,

not ruin me.

And so I thank them.

I bless them.

I release them.

One by one, they float from the corners of my being, gentle and free, grateful to be let go.

My house, this soul of mine, is being restored.

Light seeps through the cracks again. I feel lighter, not only in shadow, but in spirit.

And this time, this purging is not agony.

It is grace.

It is peace.

And those who showed me this, they are the sacred ones. The soul bonds. The serendipities. The messengers of freedom. My Godsend and My heart’s mirror.

The attack was not meant to be my final blow, but instead was a blade that pierced open the seal that held it all in and set me free, allowing my true self to soar.

I know now, my karmic contract is fulfilled.

I am not yet fully free, but I am being unbound.

And even the ghosts smile as they leave, because they, too, were waiting to be released, to return home. ~

If this spoke to something inside you, I hope you’ll sit with it. Let it stir. Let it soften. We all have our ghosts, memories, pain, beliefs we thought we had to carry forever. But healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means seeing clearly, blessing the past, and choosing to open the door. You’re not alone on that journey. And you're more free than you know.

Shared with tremendous love, compassion, gratitude, and joy,

Tammy Scott

Author of: Frontline Survivor

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July 11th will mark three years since the brutal attack that changed everything. What started as an ordinary day in the ER—my second home for nearly two decades—became a moment of unimaginable violence.

Triage was my zone and where I thrived with my skills.⚡️rapid decisions, life-saving instincts, calm under chaos. But it was also a place of hidden danger. Despite working in one of the most violent cities in the country, there were no metal detectors, no security, and no physical barriers. We begged the hospital executives for safety, but were met with silence.

That day, a woman came in by EMS with a complaint of abdominal pain yet she was in clear psychosis, escorted by a paramedic, she was sent to triage. The tech I worked with, who was very astute, recognized the risk and called for her to be placed in a secure room, but the call was too late.

In a flash, she walked around the desk, pulled a butcher knife from her bag, and ambushed me from behind while I was helping an elderly man with chest pain. I never saw her coming. The first blow landed on the right side of my head. The paramedic I worked with, who was behind me, was also injured trying to intervene. Thank God, she was treated and released. She remains one of the many heroes who saved my life that day. 🩵

What followed: 3 stab wounds, a narrowly missed fourth, a severed external carotid artery, right facial nerve severed, leaving permanent paralysis on the right side of my face, and many more injuries that may never heal. But by sheer will and God’s grace, I rose from the floor, applied pressure to my own artery, and ran to the trauma room. The colleagues I had trained for years saved me.

You may know parts of this story. Others will learn through my upcoming book, Frontline Survivor, and other platforms where I continue to speak my truth. 📖

After all this time, I never imagined I’d still be writing in the midst of the storm—but I promised I’d take you with me on this journey. 💛

Despite all I’ve endured, the legal battle still isn’t over. My attacker’s trial is set for April 2026. Workers’ Comp continues to delay resolution. My injuries will never fully heal. The PTSD remains ever present daily. And while I keep pushing forward, I haven’t received pay in months. I sold my home. What little remains is almost gone. Every day without a settlement pushes me closer to financial collapse. 💔💸

This is what too many injured healthcare workers face: abandoned by the very system we gave our lives to serve. We are not protected. We are not supported. We are often discarded.

But I refuse to be silent. I’m still here. Still rising. Still fighting. ✊

Like countless others, I’ve had no income, no safety net, and no help from the system that should be standing behind me. Maybe they think I’ll give up, accept less, disappear quietly.

But I won’t.
🛑 I’m not going anywhere.

This fight is bigger than me. It’s for every nurse, paramedic, doctor, and caregiver who’s been broken by a system that protects profits over people. It’s for those too exhausted to speak, too heartbroken to keep pushing forward.

Yes, I’ve lost much—but not my fire. Not my voice. I am still here. 🔥

Every time I share my truth, I hope it chips away at the silence that’s suffocated so many. If you’re starting over, if you feel unseen or broken by a system that is supposed to provide compassion, healing, and care, you are not alone. 🤝

Even now, in this hard season, I choose joy.
I choose faith and gratitude!
I believe in justice, in healing, and in the unbreakable power of community. 🌱

I lift others because sometimes, the light we give is the light we need. ✨

We rise together.
With hope. With grit. With purpose. 🌟

Thank you for walking this road with me. Your support is fuel when the fire runs low. I’ll keep writing. Keep speaking. Keep standing—for myself, for you, for all of us. 💛

Healthcare professionals are legally required to report suspected abuse of their patients—yet hospitals have no legal obligation to report or even prevent violence or abuse against their own staff!

Let that sink in. 🛑

The truth about workplace violence in healthcare:
Although attacks are on the rise, most go unreported, and no governing body mandates safety protections for staff.

🩺 Nurses are five times more likely to be assaulted on the job than workers in any other profession.

📉 Every day in the United States, two nurses are assaulted every hour—that’s over 57 assaults per day, and more than 20,000 per year.

🕯️ And tragically, more healthcare professionals are being murdered in the workplace than ever before. In 2023 alone, at least 20 nurses and healthcare staff were killed while simply doing their jobs.

And still—there is no federal law requiring hospitals to protect their staff from violence.
No accountability. No mandate. No urgency.

These numbers are not precise. It’s worse than we know!

• 💥 Up to 80% of violent incidents are never officially documented.
  Medical Economics

• 🚨 Only 12% of attacks are formally reported through workplace channels.
  Medical Economics

• 😔 Nurses stay silent due to fear of retaliation, disbelief that it will help, or because they see violence as "part of the job."
  CENTEGIX
  ANA

• 📝 In 2023, only 32% of nurses said their employer provided a clear way to file a report.
  National Nurses United Report (PDF)

In Chapter 11 of Frontline Survivor: Tyrants Hate the Truth Exposed, a portion of the subchapter, Institutionalized Abuse, will be provided for subscribers only this month. Watch for the delivery. Thank you, subscribers, I’m eternally grateful!

If this story resonates with you, don’t let it sit in silence.

🔁 Share it. Post it on your social media, forward it to friends, colleagues, or anyone who still believes nurses and healthcare workers are disposable.
💬 Comment below. Your voice matters, and your words can create connection, momentum, and healing.
🤝 Support the fight. If you're able, consider subscribing, spreading awareness, or simply standing beside those of us still in the trenches.

Every time someone reads this, the silence around healthcare injustice gets a little bit louder, and that’s how change begins.

💛 We rise. We speak. We heal. Together.

“They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds.” — Mexican Proverb 🌻

With strength & light, Keep Shining Brightly! 🌟
Much Love to you all,

Tammy 🦋

🌟 Why This?

For too long, the safety of healthcare professionals has been overlooked. Violence against healthcare professionals is rising, yet the conversation around real change remains stagnant. I know this because I lived it.

On July 11, 2022, my life changed forever when I was brutally attacked while working in the ER. The trauma didn’t just leave physical scars—it opened my eyes to a broken system that fails to protect those who dedicate their lives to helping others.

After two and a half years of healing, advocacy, and finding my voice, I am ready to use my platform to inspire, empower, and ignite change. That’s why I created this Substack.

If you received this in your email inbox, you’re already on my free email list. You will receive updates and inspirational messages. Please share and ask friends to subscribe as well. If you want to subscribe, enter your email at the bottom of this page.

⏳ Why Now?

Because nurses and healthcare professionals can’t afford to wait. Every day, more of us in healthcare face violence, burnout, and a system that turns a blind eye to our safety. We must demand better—for ourselves, for our colleagues, and for the future of healthcare.

I've been inconsistent in speaking out, as my recovery has been anything but steady. On my good days, I’m fueled by determination and ambition. 🔥But on the tough days—when the weight of it all lingers—weeks can slip into struggle. 💔

Yet, I made a promise to myself as I lay in the ICU 🏥, devastated by what had happened. I vowed that this would not be in vain. I refused to be just another victim. Instead, I would rise ✨, speak out 📢, and fight 💪—not just for myself, but for all of us.

Through my 📲 social media, 📝 this Substack, 📖 my book Frontline Survivor, 🎗️ my foundation The Nightingale Front, and 🎤 my public advocacy, I intend to keep that promise. But more than that, I want a deeper connection with you—one that goes beyond headlines and social media. A space where our voices come together to create real change. 💙

This space is where our voices come together to share experiences, spark real conversations, and push for action.

🤝 The Community I Want to Build

This is for:
✅ Healthcare professionals who’ve faced violence, trauma, or burnout and want a place to feel seen, supported, and heard.
✅ Advocates & changemakers who believe in workplace safety and want to be part of a movement demanding better protections.
✅ Anyone looking for inspiration & healing, looking for stories of courage, overcoming adversity, and taking back control after hardship.

I want this to be a place of inspiration, action, and meaningful change—where we uplift each other, learn from our experiences, and refuse to stay silent.

Join me. Let’s build something powerful together.

📩 Subscribe now to be part of the movement:

[🆓 Free Subscription] – Get personal stories, healthcare insights, and advocacy updates. If you received this email, you’re already on the Free Subscription list! Thank you!

[💙 Paid Subscription] – Gain exclusive access to behind-the-scenes updates, deep-dive discussions, and my personal reflections on advocacy, resilience, and change.

🙏 Please be patient with me if you have any questions about Substack. I’m still learning 📖 and finding my way around this platform, but I appreciate your support as I navigate it! Just keeping it real, as I always do! Much love to all of you!💙😊

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