Before I ever referred to myself as a future doctor, I was a listener.

Not due to someone advising me that listening held significance in medicine, but because, as a first-year student, I swiftly realized I possessed no answers—but I did have ears. And heart. And a quiet seat on the periphery of patient narratives and preceptor insights.

In the initial stages of medical school, everything felt alien. The terminology, the speed, the impression that one was meant to absorb not just information, but a completely new persona. Thus, I did the only thing I could: I listened.

I listened to instructors whose faces lit up when discussing an illness they once treated. I listened to patients who, even in simulated interactions, looked me in the eyes and divulged something intimate, entrusting me with a fragment of their narrative. I listened to classmates who quietly doubted themselves but were too timid to vocalize it—until someone, sometimes myself, simply listened long enough to allow the fear to emerge.

There’s strength in silence. In the pauses between someone’s statements. In the inquiries that go unanswered for a moment. I began to observe that when I ceased attempting to validate myself—or to sound more prepared than I actually was—I created space for others to be entirely present. In those instances, I learned more about healing than I could have gained from any textbook.

I recall one particularly memorable patient interview in which I hardly spoke ten words. I nodded, maintained eye contact, and asked just enough to allow them to continue. At the conclusion of our time, they smiled and said, “Thank you. I haven’t shared like that in a long time.” And I realized I hadn’t accomplished much at all—except listening. Yet somehow, that meant everything.

In medical training, there’s a significant emphasis on learning to articulate: Speaking with authority, empathy, and clinical accuracy. But we are seldom instructed on how to listen genuinely. To resist the urge to interrupt. To let emotion linger in the room without hastily attempting to resolve it. To perceive not just symptoms, but what is truly significant to the individual experiencing them.

Even with preceptors, I discovered that the most valuable lessons emerged when I simply observed—not just what they articulated, but how they presented themselves. The pause before imparting difficult news. The composure amidst chaos. The humility in acknowledging they didn’t possess all the answers.

These were not lessons from a slide presentation. They were lessons in humanity. And they endured with me.

We discuss so extensively in medicine about knowing what to communicate, about delivering the right message at the appropriate moment. But what if the true artistry lies in recognizing when to remain silent?

As I approach my clinical years, I carry this understanding with me: That being listened to can be more restorative than being assisted. That long before I pen my first prescription or execute my first procedure, I can provide something equally essential. My presence. My attention. My readiness to listen—not solely to facts, but to emotions.

We often assume we become doctors by speaking like them. But perhaps, just perhaps, we start our journey to becoming doctors by prioritizing listening first.

Kelly Dórea França is a medical student.