\Empathy in Healthcare

This morning, I found myself somewhere unfamiliar — the patient’s chair.

I had an injury. I was in pain. I hadn’t slept. And like many people do in that state, I showed up hoping to be seen and helped.

This time, it wasn’t a doctor I saw — but a practitioner in another corner of healthcare. And the experience stayed with me.

I was seen, yes. And technically, I was helped.

But I left that consultation feeling more vulnerable than when I walked in.

Because something important was missing.

The Consultation That Made Me Pause

The practitioner who saw me was methodical, direct, and efficient. He examined my leg, gave me a diagnosis, assessed the degree of pain and laid out a plan. Box after box was ticked.

But there was no eye contact. No warmth. No acknowledgement of the pain I’d been in all night. No “That must be sore” or “I’m sorry you’ve had a rough time.”

Just clinical precision and a distant tone.

And I sat there, thinking: I’m a doctor. I have the knowledge to reassure myself that this probably isn’t serious.

But what about the patient who doesn’t?

What about the person who’s anxious, exhausted, unsure whether they’re overreacting?

What happens when they meet care like this?

Beyond Diagnoses and Data Points

Empathy doesn’t take long.

It doesn’t need to be dramatic or performative.

But it does something extraordinary.

It softens fear. It builds trust. It tells the person in front of you: You matter. You’re safe. I see you.

A simple sentence — “That must be really uncomfortable” — could’ve changed how I felt entirely. Not because I needed someone to fix me emotionally,

but because I needed someone to remember I was human first, patient second.

This isn’t about one profession. These moments can happen across all areas of healthcare — from medicine to nursing to allied health. The system pressures us all.

Are We Losing the Heart of Healthcare?

Before I go any further — I want to be clear. I’ve worked in overstretched clinics. I’ve been the doctor with 20 people waiting, phones ringing, an overflowing inbox, and a lunch break that never comes. I know what it’s like to be drowning in documentation, constantly watching the clock, trying not to miss something critical.

So I get it. I really do!

But here’s the thing.

The problem isn’t one cold interaction. The problem is that somewhere along the way, the system made coldness feel like the default. Everyone is under pressure — practitioners are racing against time, buried in documentation and compliance, and patients are left navigating their pain in silence. Empathy starts to feel like a luxury — an extra, rather than the foundation it should be.

But we can’t afford to normalise this.

Not for those seeking care.

And not for those providing it.

When Patients Leave Feeling Worse

What happens when care becomes transactional?

People stop seeking help.

They begin to question their pain, their worth, their right to be heard.

Vulnerable moments turn into quiet wounds — the kind that linger long after the appointment ends.

And when care becomes transactional, we all lose something — as patients, as practitioners, as human beings.

The real risk is this: when empathy is gone, the human connection disappears; and without connection healing becomes harder, not easier.

What If We All Just Paused for a Moment?

I’m not writing this to point fingers. I’m writing this because I’ve been on both sides of the consultation table — and today was a harsh reminder of just how vulnerable it can feel to be on the receiving end of care.

What would it look like if every clinician or practitioner took just a few seconds to pause, make eye contact, and say, “That sounds tough,” or “You’ve done the right thing coming in”?

And so, from the heart — I want to say this, on behalf of myself and so many of us working in health and care spaces:

If you’ve ever left an appointment feeling dismissed, unheard, or invisible — I am truly sorry.

You deserved better. Your pain, your worry, your story — it all matters.

Empathy is not a soft skill.

It’s the strongest thread that holds this work— and this world — together.

And while we can’t change the system overnight, we can keep naming what isn’t working.

We can keep showing up for care that holds both competence and compassion.

Because being cared for should never make you feel small.

You’re not asking for too much.

You’re asking to be treated like a person.

And that — always — is enough.

Disclaimer:

This blog reflects my personal experience and professional insights as both a healthcare provider and a patient. It is shared to encourage more compassionate, person-centred care across all areas of health. The content is intended for general information and reflection only and should not be taken as medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you have concerns about your health or your care experience, please speak with your GP or a qualified healthcare professional for personalised support.

At Farah Health, we’re here to support your journey — but every person’s situation is unique, and individualised care always matters.