Medicine is evolving to be faster, louder, and more efficient, yet many of us sense something quietly vanishing. We discuss issues like burnout, moral injury, and depersonalized care, but the profound question often goes overlooked: How do we preserve the essence of medicine while creating systems that must expand?

I stumbled upon that inquiry in an unforeseen location—not in a policy discussion, not within a spreadsheet, and not through an architectural design, but at a piano.

Years ago, Fu Jen Catholic University in Taiwan faced an “impossible challenge.” We had a medical school but lacked our own teaching hospital. In a world where training environments shape identity, culture, and clinical decision-making, this absence represented more than an administrative shortfall; it posed a risk to the integrity of medical education. Constructing a hospital from the ground up demanded not just funding and strategizing, but a lasting human core: a motivation to persevere even when the figures appeared discouraging.

At that time, I was trained as a surgeon and held a position in university leadership. However, I also carried another lifelong persona: I was a classical pianist. Like numerous clinicians, I maintained that aspect of my identity “outside of medicine,” as though it were a personal pastime disconnected from my professional existence. Later, I would come to realize the contrary: that our nonmedical interests can transform into vital resources for establishing compassionate medical institutions.

The harmony of a dual identity: surgeon and pianist

In fundraising efforts, I uncovered something that took me by surprise. A slide presentation can outline a project, but it seldom inspires a room. A piano performance, in contrast, can cultivate a shared emotional atmosphere where individuals recall the significance of healing.

During pivotal moments in our campaign, a singular piece (often Chopin) accomplished what my best administrative language could not. It reminded benefactors and colleagues that a hospital is not merely a construction project; it embodies a moral commitment. People contributed not out of admiration for a building plan but because they felt the human significance underpinning it.

This experience transformed my perspective on leadership. A physician’s life beyond medicine is not a distraction; it can enhance our leadership within medicine. When we bring our complete selves to the work, we exemplify a type of professionalism that encompasses empathy, patience, and reverence for life—qualities that no KPI can fully encapsulate.

Crafting a healing atmosphere, not just a functional system

As our plans advanced, we resisted the inclination to view the hospital solely as a technical entity. Certainly, we required safety, effectiveness, and modern processes. Nonetheless, we also needed an environment that conveyed dignity.

This philosophy became evident in our communal spaces. In the hospital lobby, a significant ceramic artwork, The Tree of Life, was established as a focal point. It was not mere decoration; it was a declaration: Patients entering this facility are not “cases” moving through a pipeline. They are human beings who deserve to be embraced with warmth.

This is what I mean by a hospital “with a soul.” It is not sentimental marketing; it is design that aligns the institution’s physical environment with its ethical purpose.

Transmitting humanism: a duet as mentorship

Humanism cannot depend solely on a founder’s character. It must be conveyed through culture.

At a recent book event reflecting on our hospital’s journey, I performed a piano duet with a second-year medical student, a talented musician as well as a future clinician. For some, this might appear to be a charming exhibition, but to me, it represented mentorship in its most tangible form.

I aimed for younger colleagues to observe something clearly: Humanism is not optional. If we desire trainees to preserve empathy, imagination, and humility, we must demonstrate to them that these traits are not “soft luxuries.” They are fundamental to the type of physician patients trust.

Spiritual care as a systemic response to suffering

Even with thoughtful design and a robust culture, medicine continues to face a reality we often overlook: Illness is not solely biological; it is existential.

This is why we formalized “spiritual care” as an established program—not to endorse a religion, but to address the human inquiries that emerge during suffering. Pain often brings with it fear, meaning-making, and grief. Families battle feelings of guilt. Patients confront identity loss. Clinicians experience helplessness.

Modern medicine excels in treating physical bodies. However, if we neglect the inner aspect of suffering, we inadvertently amplify the isolation of illness. A structured spiritual care team offers patients and families a venue where their most profound questions are regarded as valid, rather than as inconveniences that delay throughput.

This approach transcends religious boundaries. The term “soul” may sound antiquated, yet the reality it signifies is universal: Every individual seeks to be recognized as more than just a diagnosis.

What this taught me about burnout and institution-building

Constructing this hospital imparted a lesson I did not grasp during my residency: We do not safeguard the essence of medicine by laboring harder. We uphold it by developing institutions that respect human meaning and by allowing clinicians to remain completely