Wounds We Tend, Stories We Carry

Elvery resists mythmaking. Her Nightingale is not a saint, but a woman forged in complexity: brilliant, stubborn, sometimes difficult. The novel invites us to see her not as a symbol, but as a person shaped by illness, desire, pain and time. Nightingale is not just a novel about Florence Nightingale, or about nursing. It’s about the physical and emotional labour of care, and the people whose work often goes unnoticed.

Part Three returns to 1910 and Nightingale’s final moments. But Nightingale is not the centre of her own story. Jean’s narrative forms the novel’s emotional core, and her connection to Silas drives more of the plot than Nightingale’s recollections. In this way, Elvery shifts focus, both structurally and thematically, away from a single figure – and toward the quieter, often invisible work of caregiving itself.

In a time when the cost of care – whether in hospitals, homes, or war zones – is so visible, Nightingale feels timely. Elvery asks what it means to nurse, and to be nursed. Her novel honours the messy, human particulars of caregiving, even as it gestures toward the legacy of a woman who reshaped its very foundations.

Author: Caitlin Macdonald (University of Sydney), The Conversation