The clinic room was quiet, the air laced with the familiar scent of hand sanitizer. Cold air crept out from the overhead vent and slipped through my scrubs, sharpening my focus but numbing my hands at the same time. I was a third-year medical student on my family medicine rotation. Sitting across from me was my first patient of the day, a woman in her forties, here for her routine annual checkup. I settled onto a stool, just below her eye level, and asked the question I had asked countless patients before: “What brings you in today?”
She appeared composed as she began, noting that she had no pressing health concerns. Her voice was steady and measured, yet soft. Nothing was immediately concerning, yet her reserved demeanor hinted that there might be something more beneath the surface. I continued the interview, hoping her story would become clear with time. Slowly, I pieced together fragments of her story: she was a single mother, working long hours to support her children. Having left her home in South America months earlier, she now struggled to adjust to a new life in an unfamiliar country. As I listened, I was reminded of how I felt as an eight-year-old who had just moved from Mexico to the United States. I too had felt far from home and I now could see this personal memory reflected in her words. We continued, exchanging small details about her life and our shared experiences of moving to a new country. Our conversation eventually shifted back to her health and I resumed gathering her history. After a few minutes, I asked her about her exercise habits. She replied, “Because of recent family events, I haven’t been able to exercise as much.”
It was not so much the words themselves as the way she said them—a subtle shift in tone that made me pause. I met her gaze and gently responded, “If it’s not too difficult, could you tell me a little about that?”
She paused before taking a deep breath in, and as she exhaled, her words unfolded a story of deep loss. Just weeks earlier, her younger sister had passed away from cancer in her hometown. The diagnosis had come suddenly, without warning. Her sister was only in her 30s, and there was no family history of cancer. The patient spoke of her anguish and of the barriers that had kept her from being at her sister’s side: financial strain, travel restrictions and political upheaval back home.
Her composure began to falter, her voice thickening with the weight of grief. I listened in silence, handing her a tissue as the first tears fell. Her grief had found its way to the surface and was now pouring out. I had provided only gentle prompting and a listening ear, and her story nearly exploded out of her. By being interested in her story rather than her symptoms, I had provided her with a space where she could discuss the grief she had been carrying. I became acutely aware of how isolated she must have felt carrying this pain thousands of miles from home, facing each day with uncertainty and the overwhelming burden of losing her sister.
I found myself reflecting on how we had found ourselves in this conversation, and I briefly glanced at the last thing I wrote in my notebook: “Exercise.”
What was supposed to be a routine visit had transformed the room around us. A simple question about exercise habits had organically grown into a deeply memorable encounter. I no longer sensed the sharp scent of sanitizer or the chill in my fingers. In that moment, everything else fell away—all that remained was the patient and the undeniable weight of her sorrow filling the air between us. She shared the pressure of managing her grief alone and navigating single motherhood under the shadow of her loss. Her sorrow was immeasurable. Hoping to acknowledge and validate the depth of her struggle, I said gently, “Of course you’re feeling overwhelmed. This has been an incredibly difficult time, especially handling it on your own so far from home.”
The relief on her face was visible, as if a burden had been lifted. She opened up even more, describing the emotional weight of managing her grief without a support network nearby. She spoke of her isolation, the way it sank its fangs into her life and made her grief even more difficult to bear. She spoke of the sadness that filled her days and the loneliness that seeped into her nights. We shared a long silence as she looked at the floor, processing, and I found myself profoundly humbled and inspired by her resilience. Her strength was undeniable.
This encounter reminded me that healing often begins in small, unexpected moments. I had entered the room prepared for a routine exam, but by remaining open to her words—and, just as importantly, to her silences—I had been drawn into something profound. In an instant, routine was transformed into a moment of profound trust, creating an opening for her to consider counseling and antidepressant therapy, tangible steps toward healing. I felt gratitude for the connection that had quietly grown between us; the therapeutic nature of our conversation now felt as tangible as the emotional vulnerability she had shared. The air around us, which was thick with sorrow moments before, now held something lighter: hope.
I was moved not only by the patient’s story but also by my own growth in knowing how to elicit it. Just a few years ago, I might have overlooked her comment, reducing “not exercising” to a checkbox in a hurried note. Back then, I was so preoccupied with perfecting my formulaic history-taking technique, anxious about sharing a room with someone who had been a stranger just moments before—someone I had to quickly win over to explore the most personal aspects of their life. But with this patient, something was different. There was a tangible shift, a testament to my growth as a medical student learning to follow subtle cues, unafraid of where they might lead.
This experience stays with me as a reminder to approach each patient with curiosity, to linger in pauses, and to meet them where they are—wherever that may be. Ultimately, becoming a physician means building the kind of trust that invites patients to unburden themselves, transforming health care into an opportunity for care and connection to converge. Listening is not just about hearing symptoms; it is about creating a space where unspoken struggles find room to emerge. Sometimes, it is in these quiet spaces where healing can take its first breath.
[Featured] Image courtesy of Emilio Blair
Contributing Writer
Florida International University
Emilio is a third year medical student at the Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine in Miami, Florida, class of 2026. In 2022, he graduated cum laude from New York University with a Bachelor of Arts in anthropology. He enjoys drumming, playing guitar, drawing, and creating digital art. After graduating medical school, Emilio would like to pursue a career in psychiatry.