The Journey of an Empath in Medicine (non medical staff)

I have always known that I am an empath—someone who feels the emotions of others as if they were my own. Over the past eight years in the medical profession, that gift has shaped everything about how I show up for patients, families, coworkers, and doctors. It has been both my strength and my struggle.

The Early Years in Las Vegas

For three years, I worked at a rehabilitation hospital in Las Vegas as a contracted at-risk patient sitter. I sat with those who were most vulnerable—keeping them safe, keeping them company, and often carrying their emotions as my own.

Later, at the same hospital, I transitioned into the role of staffing coordinator. When COVID hit, that role became a battlefield. I worked tirelessly to keep the hospital fully staffed while so many coworkers were out sick. The responsibility was enormous—and heartbreaking.

The COVID Chapter

Those days still sit heavy on my heart. I watched patients leave the hospital in body bags. Families sat outside hospital windows, trying desperately to stay connected to their loved ones. I heard the fear in voices, felt the grief in eyes, and carried the exhaustion of staff who were stretched to their limits. And eventually, I, too, caught COVID.

As an empath, I didn’t just see these things, I felt them. The sorrow, the fear, the despair—they lived in me. Yet somehow, I kept showing up. Because patients needed a gentle voice, coworkers needed steady support, and families needed reminders of kindness in the darkest of days.

A New Chapter in Seattle

For over two years now, I have worked in Seattle, serving patients in a different kind of clinic. The pace is still demanding, and the stories remain heavy. I’ve met people facing unimaginable diagnoses, families navigating uncertainty, and doctors balancing brilliance with impossible pressure.

My empathy often leads me to connect with patients in unexpected ways. A kind word, a gentle smile, or simply listening can shift the energy of someone’s day. But it also drains me. I carry those stories home, feeling the weight of what others endure.

Walking in Two Worlds

Part of what deepens my empathy is that I am not only staff—I am also a patient of the very clinic where I work. I know what it feels like to sit in the waiting room, waiting for answers. I know what it feels like to carry both hope and fear into an appointment.

Because of this, I feel deeply for the patients I speak with on the phone and those I greet in person. I understand their worries in a way that only comes from living it yourself. This dual perspective keeps me grounded in compassion—it reminds me daily that behind every chart and every call is a human being just like me.

The Balance of an Empath

Being an empath in medicine means finding ways to protect myself while still being present for others. I’ve learned to use my “sunflower blinders”—focusing on what matters most, filtering out unnecessary noise. Breathwork, journaling, and moments of stillness have become my reset buttons.

I’ve also learned that empathy isn’t weakness—it’s a quiet strength. It allows me to notice when someone is struggling before they speak. It gives me the sensitivity to offer comfort in small ways that mean more than people realize.

Gratitude for the Gift

Even with the heartache, I am grateful for being an empath. It has taught me that medicine is not just about charts and procedures—it’s about human connection. It’s about meeting people where they are, whether in grief, fear, or hope, and holding space for them in that moment.

Eight years in, I still feel blessed to do this work. Being an empath has shaped me, challenged me, and sometimes drained me—but it has also allowed me to serve with compassion, presence, and purpose. And for that, I am grateful.