When my child was in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), it seemed like the world had come to an end. Yet, the world did not end. Instead, a new version of myself emerged. I realized I would bring this experience with me into the classroom.

I had been a celebrated professor for seven years before I found myself walking the sterile aisle between incubators during those early morning hours when my baby was asleep, and I was wide awake. My medical terminology enabled me to conjecture about conditions: Cyanosis likely indicated a congenital heart anomaly. Gastroschisis was a sign of incomplete body wall formation. Infants delivered so early had lungs that appeared underdeveloped, visible through the translucent window of their unvernixed skin, surrounded by gently forming bones, while their faces were obscured by tiny CPAP machines. There were no labels. Just small human beings.

My then 3-year-old daughter visited on the fifth day of our six-week stay. Her deep brown eyes sparkled as she carefully navigated around the monitors, intravenous, and peripheral lines to hold her brother’s tiny body. “Look, Mommy! He has a head! Isn’t he perfect?”

At that moment, I recognized that I had been teaching embryology incorrectly all along.

In healthcare, students often hear (either directly or indirectly) that their identities and lived experiences do not contribute to their future roles as doctors. That they must downplay their own selves to achieve clinical objectivity. Emotional detachment from patients.

I am here to tell you that this is not correct.

You do not have to lose your identity to shape your path in this field. Medical school is challenging. At times, it can be painful. You will undergo transformation. But do not allow the rigorous demands to erode the aspects of your mind, body, and spirit that the healthcare system desperately needs.

After years of swapping mystery for mastery of human anatomy, you will encounter stories that resonate deeply within you. You will confront situations that challenge your beliefs. Patients will come to you, seeking relief from their failing health, escape from past wounds and current suffering, and control over the chaos that disrupts their lives.

And you will come to understand that there is no direct link between being an excellent physician and fairness in life.

Thus, you will convert statistical language into terms of outcomes. Because genuine life lacks a language of certainties.

But hope isn’t about revealing to your patient how the narrative concludes. Hope is presence. Hope is walking alongside someone where they are, guiding them to the edge, and assisting them in discovering the boundaries.

Each of us has our unique examples, moments that define a before and an after. In medicine, you will realize that no shared experience with patients is beyond your understanding, no fear you cannot resonate with, no suffering you cannot empathize with because you, too, are human. And because of that, you are sufficient.

Healthcare professionals often feel exhausted by their roles because they struggle to create space to receive from their patients. In those moments, let the stories of your patients serve as offerings to your own fractured parts. These narratives will lead you far beyond mere satisfaction from explanations. They will uncover the realities of others, realities that may challenge your own. Cultivate curiosity about things you may have previously overlooked, become more attuned to inconsistencies you had adequately rationalized or successfully ignored, and be more inclined to inquire about histories you might otherwise have disregarded. By accepting these stories, you enable the possibility of being seen and heard by someone capable of listening. And who could be transformed. And who could change the world beyond what they ever imagined.

Regardless of your patients’ circumstances, they will no longer bear these burdens alone. This, to me, is where healing begins. This is the essence of humanity in medicine.

What I mean is, when I recount my time pacing the NICU floor with my newborn son, you might recall an instance when you cared for a patient in similar situations. Or a restless night when your own child was ill, even with something minor, and recognize that you, too, are susceptible to the same fears. Or, if you don’t have children, a time you lost sleep over something else that was beyond your influence. When I talk about my family, you may think of those you cherish. You might remember or envision how it would feel to see them in a hospital bed. You may even share with someone or write down how my experience resonated with you. In doing so, something new is forged from both my life and yours. It becomes part of our interconnected existence and continues on even when our paths diverge.

I did not share my story to validate my humanity, or my son’s, or even your own. My experience in the NICU felt like