Testimonials – Practitioners

In a small rural clinic, I meet my patients for decades. For me, empathy means remembering that every blood pressure reading belongs to a story: a farmer who worries about leaving his trees unattended, a grandmother caring for three grandchildren, a young man working two jobs. When I ask, “What would make this plan of treatment realistic for you?”, people often reveal the hidden obstacles that no guideline mentions. In long-term primary care, empathy is a quiet, steady curiosity about a person’s life that allows us to design treatments they can truly live with, not just agree to in the consulting room.

For me empathy means remembering that I always have at least two patients in the room: the child and the parent. A boy with recurrent stomach aches once drew his school instead of his belly when I asked him to “show the pain”. Only then did bullying emerge as the main issue. I try to speak directly to children, at eye level, and give them small choices – which arm for the vaccine, who holds their hand – so they feel some control. With parents, empathy is listening without criticism to their fears and then calmly rebuilding trust step by step.

In the ICU, many patients cannot speak for themselves, so empathy means being the patient’s voice and treating the family as part of the care process. I’ve seen how one honest, calm conversation can prevent conflict and help families make decisions with less guilt. But empathy also protects patients through teamwork. In one case, a nurse quietly told me, “This dose doesn’t feel right.” She was correct, and speaking up prevented harm. A workplace where people feel safe to question each other is a form of empathy, and it saves lives.

For me, empathy in dentistry is understanding that many patients arrive with fear, shame, or past trauma, not just “a cavity.” A few seconds of listening and explaining what will happen can turn discomfort into cooperation and make treatment safer. I also practice empathy with students. I remember being corrected harshly as a trainee, and my hands shook for the rest of the day. Mistakes are expected, but humiliation is not education. I believe that when supervisors and senior colleagues model respect, younger staff ask questions sooner, learn faster, and pass that culture on to patients. For me, that is empathy in action.

In the hospital, I’ve learned that empathy often shows itself in the smallest interactions. We had an elderly patient who appeared irritated and withdrawn every morning. One day, I took five extra minutes to sit beside her and gently ask, “What feels hardest for you today?” She opened up about how much losing her independence scared her. From then on, our cooperation changed. Not because I suddenly had more time, but because she felt acknowledged. For me, empathy also means recognising my own limits. After a demanding shift, taking a short pause or reflecting with a colleague helps me stay present for the next patient. In a team where challenges can be shared openly, empathy becomes more than a personal skill. It becomes a collective resource that protects us from burnout and misunderstandings.

On my ward, empathy often starts in the corridor, not at the bedside. Many older patients are overwhelmed by medical language and long medication lists. I try to translate the medical plan into daily life and language: “This pill is for your heart’s rhythm, this one is for pressure, this one is for fluid.” I also ask who will help them at home and whether they can afford the prescriptions and travel to check-ups. Sometimes the most important intervention is arranging a phone call with family or social services. For me, empathy in nursing is walking the extra few steps between “You are discharged” and “You are truly able to manage at home.”

On a cardiology ward, patients often look fine on the monitor while feeling terrified inside. For me, empathy is noticing those silent fears and explaining things in plain language, also to families who worry and feel helpless. Empathy is also in small acts like introducing myself, explaining what I’m doing, and checking understanding instead of assuming it. It is a key professional competence in nursing; without it, even excellent technical care can feel unsafe and incomplete.

Most of my patients see me only for a few minutes before disappearing into a loud, cold machine. For them, the scanner often symbolises the question, “Has my cancer returned?” For me, empathy starts with the first sentences. Instead of “Lie down, don’t move,” I begin with, “This will be noisy, but I will see and hear you the whole time; if you need me, raise your hand.” Many people relax visibly when they know they are not invisible inside the tunnel. I cannot change the images on the screen, and I never discuss results. But I can make the minutes around the scan a little less frightening. In technical specialties like mine, empathy is not about long conversations; it is about using very short encounters to give patients a sense of dignity and human connection.

In emergency services, everything moves quickly, but human connection often determines whether a situation calms down or escalates. I remember responding to a call involving a frightened teenager with severe shortness of breath. Medically, we had things under control, but he clung to my jacket and whispered, “Please don’t leave me alone.” What mattered most in that moment wasn’t the equipment. It was my steady voice and staying by his side until we reached the hospital. Empathy in the field means creating moments of clarity within the chaos. A simple explanation, steady eye contact, or saying “We’re doing this together” can change everything. At the same time, our team depends on openly discussing tough calls afterward. Processing these moments honestly, without pretending to be invincible, keeps us grounded and prevents the emotional weight from following us home

For me, empathy in oncology means staying present with uncertainty - mine and the patient’s - and translating complex facts into words that reduce fear. I often meet people on the worst day of their lives, and a careful sentence can lower panic and improve understanding. I remember a woman who arrived with her sister and a notebook of questions, but her hands shook so much she couldn’t hold a pen. We paused, took a breath, and I said, “Let’s do this together, one question at a time.” In that moment, being heard mattered as much as the information. I also try to speak respectfully in corridors because families hear more than we think. Empathy helps align treatment with what matters most to the patient.

In maternity care, I see empathy as protecting a space where women and families can feel safe in one of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Many couples arrive with strong expectations shaped by stories, culture and social media. Instead of judging these expectations, I try to ask, “What feels most important to you about this birth?” Sometimes it is modesty, sometimes having a specific relative present, sometimes simply not feeling rushed. Labour does not always follow the plan, but even when we need to intervene medically, we can still explain each step, ask for consent in a calm voice, and make sure someone holds the mother’s hand while the room fills with staff. For me, empathy in midwifery is about honouring the birth as a profound life event, not just a procedure.

In occupational medicine, I often meet workers who minimise their symptoms because “others depend on my shift”. Empathy starts with understanding how strongly identity and income are tied to their job. When a machine operator developed chronic back pain, the easiest advice was “stop lifting”. The real work was exploring with him and his supervisor how tasks could be reorganised so he could keep both his health and his role in the team. I try to translate medical recommendations into language that makes sense on the factory floor: what it means for today’s workload, overtime, and family budget. For me, empathy here is being an honest ally to both worker and workplace, not an inspector with a stamp.

In my work, empathy means seeing the person behind the diagnosis. Nutrition advice can touch sensitive areas - weight, self-esteem, culture, finances, and family habits - so a judgmental tone shuts people down instantly. I once met a patient with diabetes who nodded politely at every recommendation until I asked, “What’s hardest at home?” He admitted he was choosing between medications and groceries. Only then could we plan something realistic. Empathy is also how we cooperate across professions: when the team shares information respectfully, patients receive a single, coherent message rather than conflicting advice.

At the start of my training, I thought empathy was mostly about listening. Now I realise it also involves providing structure and clear expectations. One patient with chronic symptoms often arrived frustrated and overwhelmed. When I took his concerns seriously but also explained, step by step, what we realistically could and couldn’t do, the tension eased. His frustration was rooted in fear and once he felt oriented, the anger softened. Empathy for me means balancing emotional presence with clinical clarity. Our team regularly does short debriefings after challenging encounters, which helps us understand our reactions and avoid miscommunication. In this way, empathy not only supports patients but also strengthens us as young professionals as we grow into our roles.

Skin diseases are often visible before they are painful, so patients often arrive with years of embarrassment. A young woman with psoriasis once told me she had mastered covering every patch with clothes and filters but avoided swimming pools and dating. Empathy for me is asking early, “How has this changed your everyday life?” before discussing creams and phototherapy. We also talk about comments from others and social media images of “perfect skin”. Treatment works better when patients feel respected as whole people, not just as surfaces to be corrected.