Every year, I step away from the electronic health record, performance metrics, fears of malpractice, and the constant murmur of burnout—and embark on a medical mission trip—this year to Nicaragua. Together with a group of fellow volunteers, I bring only what we can carry: a few stethoscopes, essential supplies, and the desire to serve.
We establish clinics in makeshift church halls with tin roofs in remote communities. Here, medicine is freed from all the burdens it carries in the contemporary world—no malpractice concerns, no billing codes, no insurance disputes, no never-ending checklists or Google reviews. There are no charts separating us from our patients. No computer screens to distract us. Just eye contact, open hearts, and the sacred privilege of being present.
What is remarkable isn’t the scarcity of resources—it’s the abundance of grace. Patients wait for hours in the heat, sometimes all day. Yet, no one voices complaints. They allow the mother with the crying baby to go ahead. They wait even when supplies diminish, simply to express gratitude. Children embrace us without fear. Parents bless us as we depart their village, placing their hands over our hearts. They possess almost nothing. Yet somehow, they exhibit a profound joy, faith, and connection that many of us—with all our wealth—struggle to discover.
In the absence of technology, our eyes connect with theirs. There are no screens dividing us, no templates outlining our time. It’s merely one human caring for another. I’ve treated a two-year-old with burns, held an 18-day-old newborn, and wept with families confronting terminal illness. I’ve prayed over delicate lives, laughed with grandmothers, and listened to stories that opened my heart wide. Like the one about an 8-year-old girl whose greatest delight is knocking on doors and kissing boys—shared by her grandmother through uncontrollable laughter. These moments are pure, unforgettable, and deeply human.
In Nicaragua, spirituality plays a role in the healing. We don’t merely prescribe and diagnose—we pray, we listen, we witness. We honor not just the illness, but the soul behind it. This is whole-person care at its finest.
And here’s the hardest truth: They gift us more than we gift them. We arrive with our medical degrees and backpacks full of supplies. They provide us with perspective, humility, and joy. They remind us of the reason behind the white coat.
We return home physically exhausted, emotionally fulfilled, and spiritually revitalized. This is why I continue to return. Not because they need us—but because we need them. They remind us of who we truly are when everything else is taken away.
They remind us of the type of medicine—and the type of humanity—that remains the most important.
Prasanthi Reddy is a pediatrician.