“Will you be donning a white skirt and a hat from this point on?”

That was among the initial remarks I encountered when I informed family members of my acceptance into nursing school. It was delivered as a joke—at least that’s how it was framed. Yet the underlying implication wasn’t amusing.

Within my South Asian community, nursing is regarded as women’s work—significant, but of low standing. For a man to pursue this career path was, for many, perplexing or odd. It suggested I’d be in a caregiving position, which is not typically aligned with conventional ideas of masculinity.

That early mockery lingered in my mind. I had nearly buried that remark deep within until it resurfaced.

One morning, when I introduced myself as a nurse to a patient, he appeared bewildered and requested, “Can you call the nurse for me?” Despite being present at his bedside, adorned with a stethoscope around my neck and a hospital ID badge visibly displayed on my scrubs, he didn’t perceive me as a nurse—possibly due to my appearance not aligning with his expectations.

I am a South Asian male nurse with brown skin and a slight accent. In the eyes of many—patients, colleagues, occasionally even leadership—I am an outlier.

In my culture, nursing is a profession not frequently embraced by men. It is often viewed as an extension of household caregiving—vital, yet lacking in prestige. In Canada, although the discourse surrounding gender equity is more progressive, there remains a widespread assumption of what a nurse and nursing leadership “should” resemble. Frequently, those anticipated standards do not correspond with someone like me. Numerous times, I have encountered patients or their family members inquiring whether it is typical for men from my homeland to pursue nursing. A question wrapped in seemingly harmless curiosity, yet imbued with a profound sense of incredulity—an unspoken reminder that, despite the liberal and forward-looking nature of Canadian health care, men of color in nursing are still viewed as anomalies, persistently required to validate their place.

Throughout my journey, I have come to realize that the values I grew up with—humility, deference, discreet competence—can be misinterpreted in Western health care environments. During nursing school, I was labeled as “too quiet,” “too reserved,” or “not sufficiently assertive.” But in truth, I was demonstrating thoughtfulness, respect, and intentionality—qualities that my culture instilled as crucial for caring for others.

It wasn’t that I lacked confidence; it was simply that my confidence didn’t manifest in a loud manner.

While working in the ICU one day, I noticed subtle cardiac changes in a patient and raised my concerns with the team. My insistence led to a timely intervention that might have preserved the patient’s life. I worked hard, guiding the patient toward clinical stability, yet my Canadian colleague, to whom I transferred care, received acknowledgment for keeping the patient alive. I remained unseen in the story—even though my clinical judgment had proven accurate.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy or affirmation. I share this because I recognize I am not the only one. Many racialized health care professionals encounter this kind of misidentification. Our communication, advocacy, and leadership styles don’t always conform to the predominant mold. But that does not render them any less effective.

Over the years, I have cultivated a quietly robust reputation. I now conduct professional development sessions for ICU nurses, lead orientations for new staff, and even colleagues senior to me seek my advice. I am trusted not because I altered who I am—but because I have consistently remained true to myself—quiet, yet capable. I have learned to articulate my values without forsaking them.

Effective leadership doesn’t necessarily have to be vocal. And competence doesn’t always present itself in an ostentatious, assured tone.

What we require in health care is not just numerical diversity, but diversity in how we interpret excellence. We must begin to appreciate cultural humility, emotional intelligence, and quiet fortitude as much as assertiveness and visibility.

If we aspire for a health care system that genuinely mirrors the communities it serves, we must broaden our comprehension of who belongs—and how they lead.

So, the next time someone queries, “Can you call the nurse?” I’ll calmly smile and respond, “You’re already speaking to him.”

*Viksit Bali is a nurse.*