“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~Rumi
Insights on Healing from a Podiatrist’s Journey
Throughout much of my professional life as an adult, I’ve dedicated myself to assisting individuals in their healing processes.
As a podiatrist specializing in foot and ankle surgery, I’ve witnessed pain manifesting in various physical forms—from torn ligaments and shattered bones to persistent open wounds. However, if I’m completely candid, the most profound injuries I’ve come across weren’t those I addressed in my medical practice. They were the unseen emotional scars that patients bore in silence, as well as the ones I myself had been carrying without full awareness.
I once believed that the path to healing was simple and direct: diagnose the issue, apply the appropriate treatment, monitor progress, and expect recovery.
This approach felt logical and aligned perfectly with my medical training. Yet, real life and human experiences seldom follow such tidy protocols.
A number of years back, I was managing the care of a woman in her mid-sixties suffering from recurring foot ulcers caused by diabetes. From a clinical standpoint, our protocol was impeccable—using optimal wound dressings, pressure-relief techniques, necessary antibiotics, and consistent follow-up visits. Despite this, her ulcers refused to heal. I was baffled and increasingly irritated. I second-guessed my entire strategy and turned the blame inward.
Then, during one visit, she confided gently, “There are times when I don’t even wish for these wounds to mend.”
She wasn’t resisting treatment out of spite; she was simply voicing her truth.
Her spouse had recently died, leaving her to live alone, and these regular clinic visits provided rare moments of genuine human connection—times when someone truly noticed her, made eye contact, and inquired about her well-being. The ulcers, in a way, ensured she wouldn’t be overlooked.
This revelation brought me to a complete halt.
It dawned on me that while I was meticulously treating her physical foot injury, I had overlooked the complete person. I hadn’t fully grasped the emotional narrative intertwined with her bodily affliction. In the process, I was neglecting a vital aspect of my own inner world.
I had long taken pride in my demeanor of composure, efficiency, and competence. My residency program had conditioned me to endure exhaustion, mounting stress, and endless shifts. It celebrated flawlessness and stigmatized any hint of fragility. Consequently, I armored myself with an unyielding resilience.
Beneath that protective shell, however, I was depleted. Emotionally parched. I felt severed from the core motivation that initially drew me to medicine: authentic human bonds.
It was only after recognizing the deeper pains woven into my patients’ narratives—such as grief, isolation, guilt, and anxiety—that I began confronting my own hidden hurts.
This wasn’t mere bodily discomfort or the conventional burnout described in medical literature. It was a subtler, more elusive sensation: a quiet longing to reclaim a sense of wholeness.
I’ve had patients break down in tears, apologizing profusely for “wasting my valuable time,” as though their anguish didn’t merit my focus. Others have shared harrowing tales of past traumas utterly unrelated to their podiatric issues but profoundly influencing their stalled recovery.
I shifted my approach to listen more intently. I ceased hurrying through appointments. I started posing the question, “How are you, truly?” Gradually, by fostering an environment where others could express vulnerability, I extended the same grace to my own heart.
I resumed the practice of journaling to process my thoughts. I embraced the necessity of scheduled breaks from work. I reached out to old friends I’d sidelined due to my packed schedule. I even consulted a therapist, not amid any acute emergency, but out of a genuine desire to explore the facets of myself I’d long disregarded.
Through these experiences, I came to understand that healing doesn’t invariably mean repairing what’s fractured. Often, it’s rooted in simply validating the pain, even absent a precise medical label.
Medical education molds us into authoritative figures armed with solutions and directives.
Yet, true healing frequently unfolds beyond the sterile confines of the examination room. It emerges in those hushed instants of mutual comprehension, where professional facades dissolve, and two souls simply behold one another.
I’ve abandoned the facade of having everything under control. Instead, I’ve embraced greater authenticity with myself and those around me. My patients pick up on this shift, and it seems to deepen their trust in me—not due to any superhuman perfection, but because of my genuine humanity.
Key Lessons Discovered
Healing defies straight lines, much like personal development. Individuals crave more than mere repairs; they yearn to be truly acknowledged.
Pain transcends the physical realm, and the most severe injuries often whisper rather than shout.
Authentic presence outperforms polished proficiency every time.
I suspect I’ll forever be a student of humanity. Yet, I’m profoundly thankful that my patients have afforded me the opportunity to grow—not solely as their physician, but as a companion navigating the winding path toward wholeness.
