Dignity in Service
Working in healthcare grants you a glimpse into the silent battles people are fighting. There are times when I used to wonder why most healthcare settings felt so sanitized. Now though? I get it. This isn’t traditional “customer service.” Performative cheerfulness feels out of place in this setting. Mostly because healthcare isn’t retail. The people standing on the other side of the counter aren't casually browsing for the latest trends. They're navigating the dark corners of their biology; their lives. Projecting high-octane enthusiasm feels out of place and could be exhausting for someone who’s already carrying a heavy load. Now, I don’t speak for the industry at large or the people I work with. This is what this work has come to mean for me. It’s meant learning the quiet, humbling power of becoming a blank canvas.
There’s a Japanese film called Perfect Days that follows a man named Hirayama. He cleans public restrooms in Tokyo. He lives an analog life. He wakes up, waters his plants, listens to cassette tapes on his drive to work, and cleans with meticulous precision. He barely speaks. He doesn't demand interaction or gratitude from the people he encounters. He simply does his work, observes the world, and lets people exist exactly as they are. For me, this film was in alignment with the life and service I’m trying to live. When a person walks up to the counter, it’s because someone's biology is failing them. Be it their own or someone else's (even a beloved pet). It might be temporary. It might be ongoing maintenance. Or relief from a terminal countdown. Because I don't know their burden, I’ve learned that the greatest kindness I can offer is to not demand anything extra from them. Instead, I offer a kind of neutrality. If they want to talk, I listen. If they need silence, I provide it. I don't need them to match a specific energy level. Just, be.
In Meditations, the Stoic philosopher and Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, wrote that when a person does a good act, they should not call out for others to come and see. Instead, they should be like a vine producing a cluster of grapes—doing its work quietly, asking for nothing more, and moving on to the next season. I’m finding that the most profound impact you can have on someone's life isn't through grand, boisterous gestures. Often, it’s simply about being a steady presence in an unpredictable world. It’s the quiet dignity of showing up, doing the work, and being a safe harbor for a few minutes so someone else can find their footing. As you go throughout your day, remember that almost everyone you encounter is fighting a silent battle you know nothing about.
Be the steady hand. The quiet voice. The safe harbor.
