“How come you don’t have hands?” gasped Mabel as she stared at her new friend, Zoe.

I froze.

“Gosh, is this how children make friends these days?” I thought to myself.

Beside me stood Zoe, a 9-year-old double amputee, silent as she processed the weight of Mabel’s words.

Almost instinctively, I pulled Zoe away in my clumsy attempt to protect her from the sting of the comment. “Hey Mabel, be nice to your new friend,” I warned gently before bringing Zoe to the corner to continue our playtime.

But Zoe, cheerful as ever, resumed playing almost immediately — as though nothing had happened. I told myself that perhaps it was her maturity that allowed her to brush past moments like these so easily. Yet something about the interaction lingered heavily with me, as though there were loose ends left untied.

In the middle of our game, I quietly asked Zoe how Mabel’s words had made her feel. “I felt embarrassed,” she admitted softly. I asked whether people in school ever made similar comments. She shook her head. “My friends see me every day, so they’re not surprised by my condition anymore.”

At that moment, I wanted to wrap her in the warmest hug. But in just two volunteer sessions with her through my medical school’s outreach programme at Club Rainbow, I had already learnt that Zoe was not the kind of child who wanted pity. She simply wanted to be treated like everyone else.

So instead, I reassured her that there was nothing about her body she should ever feel ashamed of. If anything, she should feel proud. Proud that despite living with a rare skin disorder like harlequin ichthyosis and undergoing double amputations, she had still found a way to live so fully and joyfully in a world that could sometimes be painfully unkind.

And joyful she was.

In only two sessions, Zoe had already taught me something far more profound than many lessons I had encountered in medical school. She taught me what resilience truly looked like — not the dramatic, triumphant kind we often romanticise, but the quiet, ordinary courage of continuing to laugh, play, and exist wholeheartedly despite unimaginable hardship.

That evening, I returned home and shared this incident with my family. Midway through the story, I suddenly found myself crying uncontrollably. My mind kept replaying that moment between Zoe and Mabel.

It struck me then that for all this while, I had been telling myself that Zoe was a “normal” child and that the best thing I could do was to treat her exactly like any other 11-year-old. I never rushed to help her uncap markers. I teased her with difficult math problems. I avoided making her feel as though the absence of her hands defined what she lacked.

But that day, Zoe made me realise something important. She was not “normal.” She was extraordinary. Not because of her condition, but because she possessed a resilience and optimism that many adults spend entire lifetimes trying to cultivate.

Because, while we often tell ourselves that volunteering is about helping others, the truth is that we rarely realise how much they offer us in return. Sometimes, the people we think we are supporting are the very ones quietly teaching us how to live.

The writer is deeply grateful to the Bright Buddies program at Duke-NUS and Club Rainbow for making this opportunity possible. Established in 1992, Club Rainbow (Singapore) is a non-profit organisation dedicated to supporting children with chronic illnesses, many of whom have disabilities and special needs, and their families. Anchored in their commitment to empowering individuals to lead dignified lives and become active contributors to society, Club Rainbow delivers more than 30 critical programmes, services, and assistance schemes to support our children and their family members.

Madhu is a final-year medical student at Duke-NUS Medical School with a passion for the medical humanities. Trained in Anthropology, she uses writing to make sense of her encounters in medicine and to cultivate the empathy and thoughtfulness she hopes to bring to her future practice.

Her essay is a reminder that learning in healthcare often happens beyond the classroom—and that some of our greatest teachers come in the most unexpected forms.

This piece was selected as a winning entry in the CHEER™ Short Story Contest: Healing Tales 2025. This is part of a broader effort to capture the lived experiences of Allied Health and Pharmacy professionals. The contest highlights authentic stories that reflect the CHEER™ values—Compassion, Humility, Empathy, Encompassing care, and Respect—and how they are enacted in real-world practice.

“Hi, Lily!” my CT partner Elizabeth said, she crouched down to her level. “I am Eliz, do you know why you’re here today?

Lily shook her head, burying her face in her mother’s side. Her mom sighed. “She’s scared of the machine. The last time she had an x-ray, after that she cried the whole night.”

Elizabeth, a seasoned paediatric radiographer, she had a way with children, that always amazed me. Instead of rushing, she knelt beside Lily and smiled. “You know what, Lily? I feared the big machine when I was little too.”

Lily peeked at her, curious.

Elizabeth pulled out a small stuffed bear from the drawer and put it on the CT couch. “This is Buzzy, our bravery bear. Do you want to lie down together with him while we take your picture? He’ll keep you safe.”

Lily hesitated, then reached out, her tiny hand wrapping around the bear gently. Elizabeth continued, “and guess what? The big camera doesn’t hurt at all. It is just like bringing you to the space, and your mummy can hold your hand while you are lying down with Buzzy on the couch, quick and easy!”

With slow, patient steps, Eliz guided Lily through the process, let her touch the CT gantry first to ease her fear. She even pretended to CT scan Mr. Buzzy, making Lily giggle when the bear “posted perfectly.”

By the time it was Lily’s turn, she was still nervous, but she trusted Eliz enough to lie down for those crucial seconds.

When it was over, Lily hugged the bear tighter and whispered, “That wasn’t scary at all.” Her mother’s eyes welled up with relief as she mouthed, thank you.

That day, Elizabeth reminded me that our profession isn’t just about positioning patients correctly, -- it’s about meeting them where they are, especially when they’re small and scared. A little empathy, creativity, and patience can turn a moment of fear into one of courage!

This piece was selected as a winning entry in the CHEER™ Short Story Contest: Healing Tales 2025. This is part of a broader effort to capture the lived experiences of Allied Health and Pharmacy professionals. The contest highlights authentic stories that reflect the CHEER™ values—Compassion, Humility, Empathy, Encompassing care, and Respect—and how they are enacted in real-world practice.

Real training cured me of the gloss. Medical school was brutal: memorisation that bled into the early hours, practical exams that compressed weeks of learning into ten jittery minutes. Basic specialty training (or Junior Residency as you call it now - yes, I was of that vintage) was not kinder. I studied at stoplights and on call-room floors, never fully sure which mistake I might make the next day. Becoming an consultant did not switch hardship off. The work changed—but the weight remained. And yet, I would not trade any of it away. I love this job: the puzzle of physiology, the privilege of proximity to other people’s lives, the colleagues who shoulder the midnight with you.

From the time I was a girl, I also wanted to be a mother. I assumed it would be simple. Many of my friends became pregnant without thinking much about logistics. I thought my endometriosis would fade into the background; it didn’t. One blocked tube later, “simple” turned into bruised thighs, timed injections, clinics at dawn before ward rounds, and the anxious choreography of IVF—hoping my body would keep pace with my calendar.

When I finally became pregnant, I developed hyperemesis. I was nauseated in clinic, sick on the walk from radiology, still telling myself I could do it all. Later, with placenta previa, I kept working until a sudden bleed reminded me how human I was. A crash cesarean followed—metal trays, bright lights, a blur of voices—and blood that seemed to drain faster than it could be replaced. I came home with a baby, a new scar, and a nervous system that startled at everything. Postpartum anxiety introduced itself like an overattentive colleague who refused to leave.

I pressed on. I pumped when free, typed into Citrix while pumping and prayed that I would not leak in clinics or scopes. Most days I left for work before my son woke and returned when he was asleep, well pleased that I had “done it all,” even as the ledger of my life stopped balancing. With my second child, the adrenaline that powered the myth finally wore off. I could not be infinite on both fronts.

So I did what felt both radical and utterly ordinary: I went part-time. I could not give up medicine, and I could not give up being there for my children. I told myself I had found the reasonable middle. I did not anticipate the shape of the guilt that would follow. When the children were sick and I was at work, I felt like a bad mother. When I called in to stay home with them, I felt like a bad doctor. I watched the pendulum swing and thought the fault was mine for not holding it still.

The culture of medicine did not invent this dilemma, but we perfect it. We ask trainees to master uncertainty yet are reluctant to tolerate it in ourselves. We talk about human limits while designing schedules that imagine none. Even my own specialty betrayed me. As a gastroenterologist, I routinely talk about the mind–gut axis, about the biopsychosocial model of health. I coach patients to look beyond lab values, to honor stress and sleep and support systems as real physiology. Somehow, I exempted myself from my own advice.

There was also the quieter shame: the sense that part-time work meant I was wasting the investment others had made in my training. In medicine, the language of “full” and “part” seems harmless but carries judgment. Full-time, full-hearted; part-time, partial. It took me a long time to understand that the fraction of a contract does not measure the fraction of a clinician.

I did not discover an elegant solution. What I found instead was a sturdier vocabulary. I learned to renegotiate the story I told myself about competence and care. “Balance” implies a poised stillness that never matched my life. “Alignment” fit better—an acceptance that different seasons ask for different weights, and that integrity lies in adjusting on purpose.

Practically, that meant naming what matters most in this season and letting other good things wait. It meant asking colleagues for explicit backup and offering the same in return, not as special favor but as normal practice. It meant blocking pumping time on the schedule in ink, not as an apology wedged into the margin. It meant speaking aloud—in meetings, not whispers—about childcare gaps and school pickups, so the next person would not have to invent courage from scratch.

Institutional change helps. Lactation spaces that are not improvised offices. Job descriptions that do not read like tests of moral worth. Promotion pathways that recognize excellence over time, not only achievement at speed. Leadership that names family responsibilities without shunting them to footnotes. None of these erases the trade-offs; all of them make the trade-offs more honest.

Somewhere in this, I learned to be gentler—with myself and with colleagues making different choices. Some of us work full-time and find deep meaning in the constancy of the wards. Some step away from paid work for a season to raise children or care for parents. Some, like me, choose a fraction on paper to protect what cannot be measured on paper. None of these paths is morally superior. They are responses to the lives we are actually living. The right choice changes over time; permission to change with it is a kindness we can extend to one another and to ourselves. We are not extra credit assignments to be graded. We are people, doing enough.

What surprised me most was what happened in the clinic when I stopped pretending that I was unlimited. Patients noticed. They did not ask me for a performance of perfection; they wanted presence, judgment, and an honest plan. I became more deliberate about handoffs and clearer about what I could do in the time we had. I was less likely to gloss over uncertainty and more likely to tell the truth about close calls, because I no longer believed that competence required silence.

At home, there were small calibrations. I still miss school pickups. I still show up to clinic after sleepless nights. I now try to measure myself less by minutes present and more by the quality of attention. It is not always equal, and it is not always enough. But my children know what I do and why. They have seen me arrive late and still kneel to tie a shoe. They have seen me apologize—to them, to colleagues—and try again.

The story I once inherited from television asked me to choose: to be the shimmering, tireless physician or the endlessly available mother. The story I am learning to write is messier and kinder. It says that most days the work of love—at the bedside and at home—looks like attention and repair. It says that a “good doctor” and a “good mother” are not opposing theses to be defended in court, but practices to be tended over years.

I still love this profession. I still love my family. I am not perfect at either. But I have stopped assuming that perfection is the point. “Good enough” is not a consolation prize; it is a discipline. It is the decision to be present where I am, to ask for help when the edges fray, and to extend to myself the same humane standard I advocate for my patients.

In training, I learned that the body seeks homeostasis—a dynamic, living balance, always adjusting. Perhaps the shape of a life in medicine is the same. Not stillness, but steadying. Not all at once, but over time. And on most days, that is enough.

Victoria Ekstrom is a narrative medicine advocate who’s constantly seeking the balance between compassion and professional distance. When she’s not busy with work, she’s chasing after her two kids and her 10 year old dachshund.

I walk with an umbrella of support, my colleagues and mentors,
Until sunlight finds it’s way into the hallway of the clinic.
While I tell this story, I listen to my patients.
Stories, not always about sickness, but about hobbies,
The weather, or about holidays to places where four seasons truly exist.

Within me, I hold my own seasons, my own weather.
Grey skies and thunderstorms, only I can see.
But here, at work, patients’ storms matter the most.
We are the bridge, bridging between monsoons of emotions,
The cold of uncertainty and the warmth of hope.

I know I cannot fix everything.
Compassion and empathy, however, is choosing to stand in the rain anyway.
Being the umbrella and guiding them where, rain does not flood, and snow does not fall.

With every pain relieved,
Each muscle strengthened,
Each doubt answered
I continue to learn that empathy is seeing the person, not the problem,
And respect by listening. Listening to,
“Howling winds”, “rumbling thunder” and the “birds under the sun”.

Whilst only two seasons exist in Singapore,
I see each patient carrying their own four.
Walking with courage through adverse weather.
And so, with my umbrella in hand, I too walk with them,
For that’s what keeps me going.

This piece was selected as a winning entry in the CHEER™ Short Story Contest: Healing Tales 2025. This is part of a broader effort to capture the lived experiences of Allied Health and Pharmacy professionals. The contest highlights authentic stories that reflect the CHEER™ values—Compassion, Humility, Empathy, Encompassing care, and Respect—and how they are enacted in real-world practice.

It was the second time that I took blood from him. He looked at me, weak and probably tired, barely moving in bed with pillows propping him up. And like last time, his radio was playing at the background. He was conscious this time, so I thought I should talk to him while I wait for my tubes to fill.

The song “Still” was playing at that moment, so I had the opportunity to tell him that I like the song and went on that I used to sing it in church. Hearing this, his face lit up, like a child on a Christmas morning.

“I like it too!” came the enthusiastic reply.

Our conversation went on to which church he goes to and that they will be transferring to a new building in Paya Lebar but couldn’t be there during the move. I could see the eagerness in his eyes as he relayed to me the details. Wondering, I asked him how long he has been staying in the hospital.

Six months.

Six months? That is awfully long. He has transferred from one ward to another within the last 6 months, saying hello and goodbye to different sets of nurses. Seeing him almost not moving in his bed and imagining him not spending Christmas and New Year at home, and perhaps some family occasions made my heart ache.

He may have noticed my sullen change of mood that he cracked a sweet smile and said, “Maybe my doctor went on a holiday and forgot to discharge me.” He let out a little chuckle and smiled like a playful boy.

I laughed. I laughed so hard that it made me teary-eyed. Oh, sweet uncle. How can someone physically weak still aspire to be funny in this situation?

What an indomitable spirit. In spite of his circumstance, I felt his gratefulness within. He was not bound to his bed. He is bound to something greater, someone Greater.

I have never laughed heartily in a long time; I have never felt that sudden pang of sadness either. I was half laughing and half crying. With a lump in my throat, I held back my tears. I didn’t want him to see me cry.

As I walked away from him, his eyes closed to rest, he was now wearing a warm smile on his face.

So was I.

This piece was selected as a winning entry in the CHEER™ Short Story Contest: Healing Tales 2025. This is part of a broader effort to capture the lived experiences of Allied Health and Pharmacy professionals. The contest highlights authentic stories that reflect the CHEER™ values—Compassion, Humility, Empathy, Encompassing care, and Respect—and how they are enacted in real-world practice.

One time, after the presentation of a medical history during an ordinary general medicine ward round, I told my team of junior doctors, “His eyes—our patient’s eyes—look so sad and anxious. Let’s sit down and talk to him and ask if there is anything else that is bothering him.” Well, most of them stared back blankly, silently judging my subjectivity. Telling me indirectly: “We have already done everything—presented his whole medical history and a mini mental state exam. What else do you want? An explanation for his emotional eyes? We can’t help you.” Of course, I came back on track and we discussed and laid out the management plans. I clearly explained each and every treatment objectively and based on current guidelines. I had saved myself and saw their respect return.

But why does it have to be separate? Why can’t we comfort and treat? Does objectivity really go out the window when we become emotionally involved? Do we really have to be objective all the time? Or would it help to place ourselves in our patients’ shoes and see their perspective—to understand the disease from their vantage point?

Most of the time, their struggles extend far beyond their disease, such that following a simple medical order proves to be very tough. A low-salt diet when they have to eat out every workday. Compliance with furosemide when the workplace doesn’t have a nearby toilet. Most doctors think it’s the easiest thing to do—taking the tablets—but in fact, we don’t know our patients’ realities. Does it hurt to connect? If we understand our patients better, we might provide a solution that is not only better but actually plausible for them. After all, life is not a randomised double-blind placebo-controlled trial, and hence outcome projections from the studies may not be achieved. So can we do the next best thing—appropriate and individualise treatment to fit our patients’ lives?

On the other side of the coin, would it hurt for patients to realise that their doctors are human and therefore vulnerable? For the longest time, people have perceived disease as the enemy and doctors as their soldiers against a villainised disease. However, sickness, disease, and death are a part of life. Doctors do not have a fail-proof remedy. We treat what we can, and most of the time we don’t save lives—we control disease, slow its progression, and make the end as dignified and as comfortable as possible.

It would help to be seen as the doctor who can be relied on in sickness—not as a saviour, but as a companion who will do their best to make the patient’s life healthier and their passing peaceful. If we are at war against disease, we will never win, for disease is not the villain in our stories; it is part of who we are. Would it help if patients saw their doctors in this light? Not the infallible doctor, but the humane one, pulling out all their expertise to treat, to care, and to comfort. Would it help if we saw that disease is not the villain, but a reminder that ours is a living body—we grow, we survive, we fall ill, and we come to a gracious acceptance of the end?

Lastly, would it help if doctors and patients alike saw each other not just as health versus sickness, but for who we truly all are—human beings?

I have no answers. I only have thoughts…

Lourdes is a hospitalist who has worked in the inpatient medical wards for many years. She has had many patient encounters that linger in her mind and she wants to share these stories - which are not of groundbreaking scientific breakthroughs, rather, stories of the ordinary usual patients living their not so ordinary lives….

Imagine living in an alien world, filled with beings who look just like you, speak similar words as you, but their dictionary of meanings is something you’ve not read before. Something as fundamental as existing, is fraught with potential misunderstandings because you live in a very different way from the aliens.

Written in a conversational question-and-answer style, Higashida answers questions that you may have always wanted to ask someone with autism about, like “Why don’t you make eye contact?” and “Why do you line up your toys?”. Higashida, an adolescent boy with severe autism at the time of writing, struggles to verbally communicate with the rest of the world until he learns written communication using a handmade alphabet grid. What ensues is an eloquent, gently humorous and empathetic account of what it’s like to live as a person with autism. The inner world of Higashida is not, as we presume, filled with meaningless chaos and noise, but with emotional sensitivity, joy, shame, and the loneliness that comes from being different and misunderstood.

As David Mitchell highlights- both “emotional poverty and aversion to company are not symptoms of autism, but consequences of autism and its harsh lockdown on self-expression and society’s near-pristine ignorance about what’s happening inside autistic heads”.

I feel perhaps the most poignant question Higashida is asked is “Would you like to be normal?” His answer – that he would have been ecstatic to be “normal” in the past but has now come to accept himself (and his autistic traits) as normal- provides some pause. If “normal” is a social construct, who gets to decide what’s “normal”, and could we broaden our perspectives and understanding of human differences, to a point where different “normals” don’t collide but rather, co-exist as a new normal?

This book was inspiration for a documentary exploring the lives of young people with autism by filmmaker Jerry Rothwell “The Reason I Jump”

Get the book here.

Yee Hui is a paediatric intensivist with one too many creative hobbies and a room overflowing with craft supplies to prove it. She believes that stories can be healing, and help to shape the world we live in.

Remember DVDs? Those plastic discs we’d stack beside the television, each one a small commitment to story and time. This was before streaming platforms knew our viewing habits better than we knew ourselves. Before “Continue Watching” followed us from device to device like a dutiful but slightly judgmental companion. Before we could pull up any episode, any moment, any musical montage scored to The Fray within seconds.

We had to wait. We had to choose. We had to sit through the credits.

The news that Scrubs is coming back feels like finding something I didn’t know I’d lost. Not the show itself—I could rewatch it anytime—but the version of myself who first watched it. It’s formative television for those of us who came of age in medicine during the 2000s, born in the 80s and 90s, raised on equal parts Grey’s Anatomy drama and Scrubs’ peculiar alchemy of slapstick and sincerity, fart jokes and philosophy, absurdist humor and devastating grief.

But where Grey’s Anatomy gave us the fantasy—brilliant surgeons in pristine makeup saving lives between romantic entanglements—Scrubs gave us something closer to the truth. It understood that hospital fluorescent lighting is unflattering. That you’ll spend more time on documentation than with patients. That the sacred heart of medicine beats beneath layers of bureaucracy and exhaustion and dark humor deployed as self-defense.

The Characters We Became

For those who didn’t grow up with Scrubs, let me introduce you to the inhabitants of Sacred Heart Hospital. JD—that’s John Dorian, our protagonist—is the earnest, optimistic intern who narrates most episodes through streams of consciousness and elaborate daydream sequences. He’s the idealist, the one who believes caring enough will be enough, who forms deep emotional connections with patients and takes every death personally. Most people who loved Scrubs identified with JD. He was the everyman, the viewer surrogate, the one who made medicine look like a calling rather than a job.

I wasn’t JD. I wish I had been.

I was Elliot Reid—the anxious, Type-A girl who approached medicine like a series of tests she could ace through sheer force of perfectionism. Elliot, who would spiral into anxiety over every mistake, who needed to prove herself constantly, who measured her worth in achievements and feared failure more than anything. Elliot, who was simultaneously deeply competent and convinced she was failing at everything.

That was me watching on those DVDs. Anxious, perfectionistic, certain that one mistake would reveal me as the fraud I secretly feared I was.

But here’s the thing about Scrubs and time and medicine: you don’t just identify with one character forever. The show was brilliant enough to give us a whole spectrum of coping mechanisms, and as you move through your career, you find yourself sliding between them.

Because now? Now I’m also Dr. Perry Cox.

The Cox Conundrum

For the uninitiated, Dr. Cox is the senior attending who serves as JD’s reluctant mentor. He’s brilliant, sarcastic, angry—a man who delivers devastating monologues about the failures of medicine, healthcare bureaucracy, and human stupidity in general. He gives his interns girls’ names (JD is variously “Newbie,” “Sally,” “Jennifer”), rails against hospital administration, and seems to run on pure contempt and whiskey. He’s the cynic to JD’s optimist, the realist to everyone else’s idealism.

I used to wonder how Dr. Cox became so angry. So bitter. So quick to rage at incompetence and inefficiency and the endless, grinding bureaucracy of healthcare. His cynicism seemed performative, a character trait written for comedy and contrast. Watch him eviscerate a medical student’s confidence in thirty seconds flat. Watch him mock sincerity, dismiss sentiment, reduce human connection to weakness.

When I was Elliot, I thought: I will never become that. I will never let this job harden me that way. I’ll stay anxious and careful and caring. I’ll maintain my standards. I’ll keep trying to be perfect.

What arrogance. What beautiful, necessary, temporary arrogance.

Here’s what they don’t tell you in medical school: medicine doesn’t just reward the Dr. Coxes of the world. It creates them. Not through any single moment. There’s no before-and-after, no clean break between idealism and exhaustion, no precise moment when you become the person you swore you wouldn’t be.

It’s cumulative.

Patient after patient who doesn’t take their medications, then returns sicker, then looks at you like their deterioration is your failure. System after system that punishes efficiency and rewards documentation, that measures quality in clicks rather than care. Meeting after meeting about meetings about initiatives about outcomes about metrics that bear increasingly distant relationship to actual patient wellbeing.

The gap between what you know you should do and what the infrastructure allows you to do, widening with each passing year. Until one day you hear yourself talking to a junior colleague and you sound exactly like Dr. Cox. Dismissive. Exhausted. Performing cynicism to protect the small flame of caring that remains.

The Elliot anxiety is still there—I still agonize over every decision, still measure myself against impossible standards. But now it’s wrapped in Cox armor. The anxiety became anger. The perfectionism became rage at systems that make perfection impossible.

Grief Disguised as Rage

I think about Dr. Cox differently now. The anger wasn’t pathology—it was grief. Grief for every patient lost to failures of the system rather than failures of medicine. Grief for the doctor he thought he’d be, the one who could save everyone if he just worked hard enough, cared enough, stayed long enough. Grief disguised as rage because rage is easier to metabolize than sadness when you still have twelve hours left in your shift and three more patients waiting and the EMR just crashed again.

If you’ve never watched Scrubs, you need to watch the episode “My Screw Up.” It’s the one where Dr. Cox’s best friend Ben—a photographer, a goofball, the guy who makes him laugh—comes to the hospital for the weekend. Ben’s son is having a birthday party and we spend the episode watching them goof around, take photos, reminisce. Dr. Cox seems almost happy. Almost human.

And then at the end, JD asks him where he’s going. He’s going to a funeral, Cox says. He’s been at a funeral this whole time. “Where do you think we are?”

Ben is dead. Has been dead the whole episode. Everything we’ve watched has been Dr. Cox’s denial, his inability to process that he couldn’t save his friend. The camera pulls back and we see we’re at a cemetery. The jazz music cuts out. And Dr. Cox, who is never vulnerable, who armor-plates every emotion in sarcasm, completely breaks.

The show knew. It knew that beneath the sarcasm and the rants and the whiskey-soaked cynicism was someone who cared so much it hurt. Someone who chose anger because the alternative was drowning.

That’s the secret of Scrubs that I’m only now understanding: everyone on that show was coping. They just chose different mechanisms. Dr. Cox chose rage. JD chose fantasy and daydreams. Turk—the surgeon, JD’s best friend, played with easy confidence by Donald Faison—chose compartmentalization, keeping work and life separate. Carla, the take-no-prisoners nurse who eventually marries Turk, chose control and maternal bossiness. Elliot chose anxiety and people-pleasing. Dr. Kelso, the seemingly cruel chief of medicine, chose pragmatic cruelty that turned out to be pragmatic protection against caring too much in an impossible job.

None of them were wrong. They were surviving.

Different Characters, Same Show

Most people who went into medicine probably saw themselves in JD. He’s the obvious identification—the protagonist, the idealist, the one who makes medicine look noble and meaningful despite its flaws. He’s who we want to be: emotionally available, deeply caring, capable of vulnerability, finding meaning in suffering.

But I suspect if we’re honest, many of us have slid across the character spectrum over the years. Started as JD or Elliot, ended up somewhere between Cox and Kelso. Kept the anxiety, added the anger. Maintained the caring, wrapped it in cynicism for protection.

I wonder sometimes if I’ll rewatch Scrubs and see myself in yet different characters now. Will I finally understand Dr. Kelso’s exhausted pragmatism about what’s actually possible within broken systems? The way he had to make impossible decisions about resources, knowing that every choice meant someone suffered? Will I relate to Jordan—Dr. Cox’s ex-wife who never quite stays ex—and her absolute refusal to pretend any of this is fine, her insistence on naming the dysfunction rather than metabolizing it silently?

Will I finally understand the Janitor’s antagonism as philosophy? His commitment to absurdity in a place that demands we pretend everything makes sense? His recognition that if you’re going to be stuck in a building where people suffer and die, you might as well make it weird?

The show knew something we didn’t yet know: that everyone in medicine is coping, we just choose different mechanisms. And it had the courage to show us that there’s no right way to cope, no moral high ground in the architecture of survival. Some of us become Dr. Cox. Some of us stay JD. Most of us—if we’re honest—cycle through different characters depending on the day, the patient, how much sleep we got, whether we remembered to eat.

Why Scrubs Endures

Maybe that’s why Scrubs endures when other medical shows feel dated. It never pretended healthcare was noble. It showed us people trying to be good in a system that makes goodness complicated. People who chose dark humor over despair, friendship over isolation, keeping going over giving up.

It understood the moral complexity of medicine in ways that procedurals couldn’t touch. Yes, you save lives. You also make mistakes. You participate in systems that harm. You try your best and it’s not enough and you come back tomorrow and try again anyway. You care deeply and you learn to care less because caring at full intensity is unsustainable, and then you hate yourself for the caring less, and then you make peace with it, and then you don’t.

The show gave us permission to be messy. To fail. To be petty and tired and human while wearing the white coat that demands we be something more. It showed us that you could be a good doctor and a flawed person, that those things aren’t contradictory but complementary, that maybe the people who do this work best are the ones who never fully resolve the contradiction.

The Price of Caring

The show understood what we’re only now beginning to say aloud in physician wellness conferences and burnout literature: that medicine extracts a price. That caring professionally means learning to care less personally, or you’ll shatter. That the people who seem most hardened are often the ones who felt things most deeply and found that feeling everything was unsustainable.

Dr. Cox teaches us this in every episode. Watch him mock JD’s sentimentality, then stay up all night researching a rare diagnosis. Watch him rant about incompetence, then fight like hell for a patient everyone else has given up on. Watch him pretend not to care, then break when his patient dies—or when Ben dies, when he finally can’t maintain the protective anger anymore.

The anger is the scar tissue. It’s what forms when you care too much, too often, and the world doesn’t care back. It’s protection. It’s survival. It’s the price of staying in the arena.

And the anxiety—Elliot’s constant anxiety—is the other side of the same coin. It’s what happens when you know exactly how much can go wrong, when you’ve seen every possible complication, when you measure yourself against perfection and find yourself wanting every single time. The anxiety says: if I just try harder, control more variables, prepare more thoroughly, maybe I can prevent the bad outcome. The anger says: I tried all that and it didn’t matter.

They’re both grief. Just different dialects.

What Scrubs Gave Us

That’s what Scrubs gave us, really. Permission to be human in a profession that demands we be superhuman. Permission to fail and try again. Permission to be broken and keep going anyway. Permission to laugh at fart jokes while holding space for grief, to make fun of death because the alternative is being crushed by it.

The show knew that medicine is absurd. That we’ll remember the patient’s name but forget our partner’s birthday. It knew that survival in medicine requires contradiction. You have to care and not care. You have to try and accept that trying isn’t enough. You have to show up knowing you’ll fail someone today and show up anyway. You have to be anxious enough to catch every detail and angry enough to keep functioning when you miss one anyway.

Coming Full Circle

I’m grateful Scrubs is coming back. Not because I need more medical television—God knows we’re drowning in medical dramas that understand nothing about medicine (aside from maybe the Pitt: read our review here). But because I need to know what happened to these characters who once reflected who I was and now reflect who I’ve become.

Did JD keep his optimism, or did he finally understand why Dr. Cox stopped learning his medical students’ names? Did Dr. Cox ever find peace, or did he keep showing up, day after day, because what else do you do when you’ve given your life to something that will never love you back? Did Turk and Carla figure out how to maintain a marriage when medicine demands everything? Did Elliot stop seeking approval from people who would never give it, or did she just get better at hiding the need?

Did any of them figure out how to do this job without becoming someone they didn’t recognize in the mirror?

Or maybe I just want permission. Permission to acknowledge that medicine changed me. That the angry, exhausted parts aren’t failure but adaptation. That you can love this work and resent it. That you can be grateful for the privilege and devastated by the cost. That you can be both Elliot and Cox, both anxious and angry, both caring and hardened.

That all of these things can be true simultaneously.

Watching Again

I’ll watch the new episodes on whatever streaming service claims them, no DVDs required. No waiting between discs, no commitment to finish what I started. I can pause anytime, scroll to something else, let the algorithm decide what I need.

But I’ll think about that younger version of myself, watching on a small screen in a small room, probably when I should have been sleeping or studying. II think she’d understand why I relate to Dr. Cox now. Why the anger makes sense. Why Elliot’s anxiety metastasized into Cox’s rage. Why caring less is sometimes caring better. Why showing up exhausted is still showing up.

I think she’d forgive me for becoming someone who’s both of them—anxious and angry, perfectionistic and cynical, still caring but wrapped in armor.

And maybe—this is what I hope from the new episodes—I’ll find that Dr. Cox found something too. Not peace, exactly. Medicine doesn’t give us peace. But maybe equilibrium. Maybe the understanding that you can be angry and still be good. That you can grieve what this work costs and still choose it. That you can become someone you didn’t expect to be and still recognize yourself.

That would be the perfect ending for Scrubs. Not redemption or resolution, but recognition. The acknowledgment that we’re all just people in scrubs, trying our best, choosing different ways to cope, showing up anyway.

Victoria Ekstrom is a narrative medicine advocate who’s constantly seeking the balance between compassion and professional distance. When she’s not writing or pondering empathy’s role in medicine, she’s chasing after her two kids, her dachshund, and—occasionally—new inspirations from unexpected places (like TV ads).

I met Poojan at the recent ART SG exhibition in January 2026, where she presented her sculpture titled “Folded Frequencies”. Popping every pill out of the blister strip leaves a lasting indentation which cannot be reversed, and time becomes immemorial in these seemingly unassuming pieces of metal and plastic.

In my work, checking blister strips is something that we are trained to do routinely with precision and accuracy. These blister strips have now been put together by Poojan carefully into a neatly stitched, yet scrunched up sculpture much larger than its individual components. As I looked at the blister strips, I saw their new purpose as an “illness narrative”. They conveyed a collective story of patients and their caregivers in their day-to-day experience living with chronic illness, taking these medication perhaps with a hope of recovery, or as a means of survival.

How might we as healthcare professionals support our patients and caregivers? I believe every patient’s needs may be different, but one thing is common: the desire for understanding and connection with a fellow human along this journey.

Learn more about Poojan’s art here.

Evangeline Chai is a pharmacist who also appreciates art, music, and nature, and their relationship with human life.

“Folding the batik makes me think of when I will leave the world.”

Mdm Siti (Name changed).

“When I place my pot of branches down, it’s like flowers at my own grave. I look and think, “That’s it forever, you stay there.” The dance presents a story, and I rehearse the process until I understand, “Oh, this is death,” and from there, I find ease.

Mdm Nuri (Name changed).

Kembali is part of ArtsWok Collaborative’s longstanding project called Both Sides, Now, which delves into the delicate themes surrounding the end of life through community engagement, dialogue, and artistic collaboration. These sessions yield deeply moving, intimate narratives of loss, grief, and hope, brought to life through various artistic forms. Installed in shared public spaces, these creations break the busy churning pace of daily life, inviting reflection on what it truly means to be human—to live, to face mortality—and how these conversations transform the bonds we share.

Both Sides, Now deeply moved me and inspired an exploration into one of its unique renditions, intentionally curated for the Malay-Muslim community rather than its usual primarily Chinese audience. This research is published in the Asia Pacific Journal of Social Work. In listening closely to the Malay-Muslim participants, these key insights emerged.

“Trust in Allah, But Tie Your Camel”: Navigating Faith & Preparedness

In Islam, after death comes Yawm ad-Din, the Day of Judgment, when one’s deeds are weighed to determine entry into Jannah (Paradise), granted by Allah’s mercy and compassion. This belief, alongside other factors, sometimes brings anxiety for those unprepared to face not only death but what lies beyond.

Hence, death preparation can often manifest as spiritual acts—praying, charity, repentance, and strengthening faith. This can include Tawakul (a surrender and reliance on Allah), believing that God will resolve unfinished matters and safeguard their loved ones. Responding to this, other community members feel that this has led to some neglect in recognising the value of earthly preparations, such as advance care planning, honest dialogue, and seeking closure with family. This needed balance is aptly summarized by the Islamic proverb, “Trust in Allah, but tie your camel.”

In light of the role of religion, intricacies regarding care planning can also arise. For example, an individual may wish to have an advanced medical directive but feel conflicted if one’s father, who believes it is his duty to be the family’s moral guide, views such directives as contrary to religious teachings.

Much more remains to be shared and understood about the nuances of Malay-Muslim beliefs about death. Doing so equips us with cultural competence and gives healthcare providers access to the lens of the patient and family. Appreciating the roots of a patient’s decision or resistance opens pathways to build trust more swiftly and deliver compassionate care.

When Words Falter: Using Everyday Stories and Art

The difficulty of talking about death is, of course, not exclusive to the Malay-Muslim community. Many people struggle to find the right words and moment:

“Talking about death feels like I’m about to dive off a cliff…there’s too much of an emotional intimacy gap with the other party to even start saying something.”

Ms Putri (Name changed)

Art and storytelling serve not only as unique ways for individuals to make meaning of life and confront death, but are also effective mediums to bridge emotional gaps in death conversations. In Both Sides, Now, community participants invite their families to their art exhibition. The exhibition becomes an intermediary that puts space between artists (participants) and viewers (their families), allowing them to reflect on these topics comfortably in their own space.

Conversations can also flow more naturally through casual references to art, television episodes, or everyday experiences, as people share impressions and feelings. Saying something like, “Yesterday, I heard about this story. What do you think about what happened?” can shift the uncomfortable focus away from either party holding the conversation, while allowing space to reflect and share about death topics from a third-person perspective of a scenario.

Closing: The Work of Understanding

As a Chinese researcher and former medical social worker, I try my best to approach cross-cultural interactions with mindfulness, fully acknowledging that I do not possess the same insider knowledge as those within each culture. With patients, interviewees, families, and friends of diverse cultures, what has been most appreciated is approaching our conversations with sincerity, curiosity, and a readiness to make room for another person’s reality, and then respond as if it were real to me too.

In exercising empathy like a muscle and in becoming adept at broaching difficult topics, I find poignant moments of vulnerability and connection with people and patients, which often turn a trying day at work into one with meaning and life.

Kaitlyn Tay is a humanitarian and development worker, drawing from experience in medical social work and research. Her interests include community development, the arts, and experiences that shape care and connection, such as end-of-life conversations.

Humanoid nurses inserted the cannula
with unhuman precision.
The blueberry drip danced along his veins
bargaining for more time.

“It is time.” His bed declared.

Outside, the last snow kissed the ground.
He played “White Christmas”
as his life-flow slowed, and stopped.

That one day came.
A humanoid nurse cleared the bed of
the last patient.

I was asked to write an “other-worldly” piece as part of the Narrative Medicine course at Columbia University. I decided to write a speculative futuristic poem and this is my accompanying reflection:

This poem looks into the future to that one day. Perhaps one day, our beds will be the one talking to us instead of humans. We can DIY our investigations based on artificial intelligence and make our seemingly autonomous decisions without the need to consult human doctors with their prejudices and biases.

Breaking bad news will be a thing of the past. The bed will keep you updated of world news and space news, along with your personal health news. (It is only ‘bad news’ when someone human breaks it to you.) When information is given through your bed, they are given as facts. Just like the calories written behind the bag of potato chips.

Prognosis? The bed will let you know matter-of-factly. There will be apps to manage your human emotions. Games to distract you. Decision-making tools based on your DNA and personalised precision health data.

Dying? People don’t wait for death. They get notified. Even euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide will be things of the past. Humans will be at peace with AI-determined completion of lives. Afterall, AI has raised them.

And even then, humans will still long for a warm touch, a familiar voice, a loving presence. Won’t they?

Prompt: When you look into the future, what do you see? (Write in the comments in poetry, prose or essay).

Jamie is a palliative care physician who believes she has the best job in the world — her work entails listening to untold stories of extraordinary lives. While this can be heavy and intense, poetry is her way of channeling these special encounters to better understand our common humanity. More of her work can be found here.

One participant shared this with me after a LEGO® Serious Play® (LSP) workshop, reflecting on how the experience had shifted the way they interacted with colleagues at work. Hearing this made my heart feel warm and fuzzy because I truly resonated with it. It also quietened months of self-doubt—about whether this project was worth the time and effort, and whether I, as an introvert, was even capable of facilitating such a workshop. That single reflection was enough. To have influenced even one person’s way of being with others at work reaffirmed everything.

When I first attended A/Prof Jason’s workshop on introduction to Lego® Serious Play® (LSP) during the Singhealth DUKE-NUS Education Conference, I could never have imagined that a year later I would be co-facilitating workshops alongside him. That path began simply by taking an interest, casting aside my doubts and fear of judgment, and choosing to run with it.

The introductory workshop truly piqued my curiosity. It was unlike any facilitation method I had encountered before—it used play. Play is an innate skill; one we all possess and rely on deeply during our formative years. Yet as adults, we seem to abandon it. Working in paediatrics, I found myself wondering: what if we could think a little more like our patients? What if we could speak without fear, or use play to express ideas and emotions that are difficult to put into words?

As an introvert, it took considerable courage to approach A/Prof Jason and ask how I might become a facilitator. I eventually signed up for the four-day LSP facilitator training. During that course, eight people from different professions and parts of the world, some for whom English was not their first language, came together. Through LSP, their stories moved others to tears. I was struck by how effortlessly this method allowed people to share openly and feel deeply.

LEGO® Serious Play® is a facilitation methodology that uses LEGO bricks as a medium for thinking and dialogue. Participants respond to prompts by building models, then take turns sharing the meaning behind their builds. The workshops are conducted in small groups, ensuring that every participant has time to speak and that every perspective is heard. The methodology encourages free thinking, non-judgement, and playful engagement. By externalising thoughts, ideas, and emotions through LEGO as an art medium, participants are prompted toward self-reflection and greater awareness of their values. Thus, creating an inner dialogue that can be shared with others through their models.

Eight months later, I facilitated my first workshop. I struggled. I found it difficult to respond to deeply personal sharing. I felt for the participants, but words did not come easily. My inability to articulate empathy affected the flow of the workshop and, at times, the comfort of the group. Although the feedback was positive, the experience weighed heavily on me. I kept asking myself: How can I do better?

I sought guidance from educators and experienced facilitators, listened to podcasts, and learned, slowly, the language of empathy. With time, practice, and the support of my co-facilitators, A/Prof Jason and Ada, I began to find my footing. I learned how to hold space more comfortably, to help participants feel safe, and to facilitate with greater presence and compassion.

As part of my SingHealth Duke-NUS Paediatric ACP Medical Humanities Grant, we facilitated three LEGO® Serious Play® workshops for colleagues from the Children’s Emergency Department at KK Women’s and Children’s Hospital. Over the course of three months, doctors and nurses of different seniorities came together in small groups to build models about who they are, how they have journeyed through their professional lives, and what belonging in the workplace means to them.

Using LEGO bricks, participants gave shape to experiences that are often hard to put into words. As they shared the stories behind their models, moments of pride, doubt, grief, resilience, and connection emerged naturally. These were not abstract reflections, but deeply personal accounts rooted in everyday clinical work. What stood out most was the sense of safety in the room. People spoke openly, listened attentively, and held space for one another. Tears were shed – not out of distress, but as a sign of trust, relief, and feeling seen.

In medical humanities, we often talk about narratives and meaning-making. LSP gave us a way to witness those processes unfolding in real time; through hands, stories, and shared space. The LEGO models became more than objects; they became vessels for stories that are rarely voiced in the pace and pressure of clinical life. These were not grand narratives, but small, deeply human ones. And they mattered.

It has been a profound honour to hear the stories shared in these workshops. I am deeply grateful to every participant who wore their heart on their sleeve (if only for the duration of the session) and shared so generously. While I set out really hoping that participants would benefit from these workshops, I did not expect to be so personally affected. Months later, the stories still linger with me. More unexpectedly, my own behaviour began to change.

I started to see everyone as a human being with a story; one shaped by challenges overcome, difficult decisions made, and struggles known only to themselves. I began to approach people with a more neutral lens, to care more deeply about colleagues at work and people in life. I found myself less affected by unpleasant interactions and less judgemental toward juniors still learning their way.

Of all the people who attended my workshops over the past three months, I realise now that I was the ultimate beneficiary. Somehow, listening to my colleagues speak about their lives, their struggles and joys, insecurities and sources of comfort, made me more human. Words are not my strongest suit, but I have felt this transformation deeply and perhaps that is the quiet power of this work. Not to change the system overnight, but to gently remind us that behind every role, every case, and every interaction, there is a person. And sometimes, all it takes is a few bricks, a safe space, and the willingness to listen.

On behalf of the Department of Children’s Emergency, we warmly invite you to explore Pieces of Us, a medical humanities exhibition showcasing personal and often unseen stories of identity and belonging shared by healthcare workers and brought to life through the creative medium of LEGO® Serious Play®.

Through a collection of individual LEGO builds, photo stories, and collaborative creations, this exhibition - supported by the SingHealth Duke-NUS Paediatric ACP Medical Humanities Grant - explores how we create meaning, cultivate a sense of belonging, and navigate the emotional rhythms of healthcare.

Exhibition Details

Venue: KKH Auditorium Foyer
Dates: 7 – 9 January 2026
Opening Ceremony: Wednesday 7 January, 11am

Thedore laid in the Intensive Care Unit, his body failing him in multiple ways: end-stage heart disease, liver disease, kidney disease, and now an acute intracranial hemorrhage. His consciousness ebbed and flowed like a tide. Some moments he was unreachable, eyes closed, silent. Other moments he surfaced, speaking with startling clarity, his mind sharp even as his body betrayed him.

It was during one of these lucid moments that Theodore spoke words that would fundamentally change how we think about our work.

“I feel traumatized,” he said, his voice steady despite everything, “by the numerous doctors who press on my limbs and fingers so hard when they come to examine me. It causes me so much pain. Is it necessary? I have PTSD from all the clinical examinations.”

We Tell Ourselves the Pain Is Necessary

In medicine, we have learned to justify the pain we inflict. We tell ourselves it is medically necessary—that the sternal rub, the nailbed pressure, the manipulation of inflamed joints are required to gather clinical data, to assess responsiveness, to document neurological function. We frame it as part of our duty: good doctors are thorough, and thoroughness sometimes requires discomfort. We document our findings—“responds to painful stimuli”—and move on to the next task, rarely pausing to consider what it feels like to be on the receiving end of that “stimulus.”

But Theodore challenged that justification with devastating simplicity. “When my wife wants me to wriggle my toes, she gently rubs my feet, and I can wriggle them for her. When my father asks me a question, he holds my hand softly, and I squeeze back to let him know I agree.”

His family had discovered what we, in our clinical protocols, had forgotten: gentleness can elicit the same clinical information as force. The difference is not in the data obtained but in the humanity preserved or violated in the obtaining.

Every Act of Examination Is Sacred

We have both been reflecting deeply on the role of touch in medical practice, and Theodore’s words crystallized insights that research has been revealing for years: one hundred percent of patients want appropriate touch from their healthcare providers. Not rough touch. Not rushed touch. Not touch that treats them as objects to be assessed. But touch that recognizes the sacred act of entering another person’s physical space, of laying hands on vulnerable bodies.

Every time we touch a patient, we are participating in something ancient and profound. We are entering into what researchers call an embodied “waltz”—a cocreated interaction where communication happens through touch itself, not just through the clinical findings we extract. Touch is never purely instrumental, never “just an examination.” It always communicates something: our care or our hurry, our presence or our distraction, our respect for the person or our focus on the task.

Theodore understood this instinctively. “The doctors and nurses here are wonderful,” he told Jason, “but they are always in a rush and focused on the task of assessing my conscious level. They don’t take the time to consider what it feels like to be the patient.”

The Fragile Boundary Between Care and Control

What struck us both most was what Theodore said next, drawing a parallel from his own profession: “As a teacher, I encounter the same in my work. There are teachers who see students as numbers—numerators and denominators—and do not focus on the individual student as a person.”

He had identified something essential about how systems can dehumanize even as individuals within them mean well. When we reduce patients to Glasgow Coma Scores to be documented, to responses to be checked off, to numbers on a chart, we lose sight of the person experiencing our examinations. And in that loss, there exists what touch researchers call “the fragile boundary between reassuring presence and control.”

The same hand pressed on a sternum can be experienced as necessary assessment or as assault. The difference lies not just in the force applied but in something more subtle: what researchers call “carefulness”—an ongoing attention to how touch is being received, a willingness to adjust based on what we perceive, a recognition that we cannot fully know another person’s experience and must remain open to learning through attention and feedback.

Theodore, even in his altered state, could feel the difference. He could sense when touch was performed with presence and when it was performed as protocol. His body carried the memory of each rough examination, accumulating into trauma he described as PTSD.

Still Teaching

“I didn’t imagine that I would be giving feedback on my own care in a hospital bed,” Theodore said.

Jason replied, “You are still teaching us today. That is your vocation. That is who you are—an educator at heart.”

And teach us he did. His story has forced us to reconsider everything we thought we knew about clinical examination. We justify the pain we cause as medically necessary, but how often have we stopped to ask: is it truly necessary, or have we simply accepted pain as part of the protocol? Could gentleness achieve the same clinical goals? When we assess response to pain, must we ourselves become the source of that pain, or could we learn from Theodore’s wife, who achieves assessment through tenderness?

The evidence suggests that touch matters profoundly. Meta-analytic research shows that appropriate touch produces therapeutic benefits comparable to pharmaceutical interventions—reducing pain, depression, and anxiety with effect sizes that would make any medication noteworthy. Yet we have somehow arrived at a place in medicine where touch is minimized, rushed, or performed with such anxiety about boundaries that we forget its healing potential.

A Call for Humane Touch

This encounter has inspired us to advocate for what we propose calling “The Humane Touch Initiative”—not as a new technique but as a return to something we have lost: the recognition that every examination is a sacred encounter, that every touch communicates, and that gentleness and thoroughness need not be opposed.

This initiative asks us to reconsider our most routine practices: When we assess response to pain in patients with altered mental status, must we press hard enough to leave bruises? Or could we, like Theodore’s wife, try gentle stimulation first and escalate only if truly necessary?

When we examine inflamed joints or tender areas, do we palpate with the assumption that some discomfort is inevitable? Or do we approach each examination as a dialogue, adjusting our touch based on subtle cues of the patient’s experience?

When we transfer patients or perform procedures, do we move efficiently through our task list? Or do we pause to consider the person experiencing our hands, our tools, our interventions?

The Humane Touch Initiative is not about avoiding necessary assessments. It is about bringing consciousness to how we perform them. It is about remembering that behind every Glasgow Coma Score is a person who may be listening, feeling, and forming memories—perhaps traumatic ones—of our touch. It is about recognizing that clinical competence includes not just gathering accurate data but gathering it in ways that preserve human dignity.

Teaching the Next Generation

Theodore’s lesson is simple but profound: in our focus on clinical necessity, we must never lose sight of our patients’ experience of that necessity. Every examination is not just a clinical act but a human encounter. The gentlest approach is often not only the most compassionate—it may also be the most effective.

Research confirms what Theodore discovered through suffering: patients can and do respond to gentle stimulation. The question we must ask ourselves is not whether we can justify the pain we cause as medically necessary, but whether we have truly explored alternatives before defaulting to force.

As we train the next generation of physicians, we commit to teaching them not just where to place their hands, but how to place them—with consciousness, with care, with recognition of the sacred trust patients place in us when they allow us to touch their vulnerable bodies. We commit to teaching them that every act of examination is a form of communication, and that the message we send through our touch matters as much as the clinical data we gather.

The authors invite feedback and collaboration from medical educators who share this vision of touch as sacred practice. Together, we can transform how the next generation learns to care for patients—one gentle examination at a time.

In the 2023 film Barbie, the titular character confronts an existential question—one amplified by Billie Eilish’s song, “What Was I Made For?” which won both Academy and Grammy Awards. In an age when artificial intelligence permeates boardrooms, laboratories, and the public imagination, increasingly taking over and even outperforming humans in many domains, her question feels more universally urgent. We may find ourselves asking not merely what AI can do, but what we ourselves are meant to be.

The humanities — often dismissed as vague or impractical — might just hold the answer. At their heart, the humanities are not just about old books or ancient history; they are about us. About how humans make meaning of life through culture, stories, language, values, and art. They explore our hopes and fears, our mistakes and triumphs, our search for beauty and truth. While I once chose a “pure science” route in high school, leading to a career in medicine and as a clinician scientist, I now find my greatest joy and fulfilment in exploring the subtleties of human nature – whether in interactions with patients, in leading people, or in expressing myself to a wider audience like this.

The phrase “Oh, the humanity!” — originally uttered as a cry of despair during the Hindenburg disaster — has since evolved into a tongue-in-cheek expression of melodrama. The same phrase now reflects the awe and irony in a world increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence. What does it really mean to be human — especially when machines can now mimic what we once thought was uniquely ours?

The humanities are about exploring the core of what we are — what it means to be human.

The Age of Artificial Creativity

There was a time when we believed creativity was the final frontier — the one thing that only humans could do. That belief has been upended. AI now composes music, paints surrealist images, writes novels and scripts, and even tells jokes (some better than others). These systems can generate beauty, evoke emotion, and surprise us with originality.

While AI’s creativity is technically impressive, it is not grounded in experience. It does not create from anything. There is no heartbreak behind its love songs. No triumph behind its anthems. No loneliness behind its poems.

Human creativity, by contrast, is deeply personal. Ever since I submitted my first poem to the former Radio Television Singapore (RTS) at the age of eleven and was selected to read it on air, I have loved writing poems. I knew just a bit of musical theory and wished I could turn these into songs by finding a collaborator who could help set them to music, but I could never find the right person willing to do that. Recently, I started experimenting with writing lyrics, which I then use AI to transform into songs. The songs are now on YouTube and listed on Spotify and Apple Music under “William Hwang” and “Why K!” (my initials). They have received good feedback from many of my friends, but more importantly, they’ve provided an avenue for my own self-expression. While AI supplies the music, I always ensure that the lyrics are fully and entirely mine – fully human.

When I write lyrics, I’m not assembling patterns. I’m expressing memories, reflections, and emotions that have shaped me — as a doctor, a father, a friend. Even if I let an AI generate the music or accompany the performance, the lyrics remain fully mine. They come from my lived story – my joys, my passions, and my delights, as well as my failings, my hurts, and my doubts.

And that, I believe, is what makes our creativity distinct: it is not just about novelty of a created work, but about the real-life meaning behind the content.

The Lived Experience and Heartfelt Empathy

AI can now simulate empathy. It can detect emotional tone, choose compassionate words, and offer comfort through virtual therapy apps or support chatbots. It listens carefully, remembers everything, reflects accurately, and adjusts its tone to how we are responding

But let’s not confuse simulation with sensation.

AI has never lived many of our truly human experiences. It has never felt the wind in its hair or the sun on its skin. It has never felt that gripping sensation of heartache in its chest. It has never felt the stinging feeling in its eyes as grief rolls down its cheeks. It has never felt ecstasy thrill up its spine and delight tingle its skin.

When a friend weeps, a human does not respond with an algorithm. We feel the weight of their pain. Our empathy is visceral, often involuntary — shaped by our own experiences of loss, betrayal, joy, and love. It is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes painful. But it is real.

AI may one day pass the Turing Test of empathy. But it will never pass the existential one — because it cannot suffer or feel true joy. And without suffering and ecstasy, there can be no true compassion.

The Beautiful Imperfection of Being Human

One of the most profound differences between AI and humans is our imperfection — and the fact that we embrace it.

Where AI strives for accuracy, we laugh at absurdity. Where AI seeks optimality, we muddle through. We trip over our words, make regrettable choices, fall in love with the wrong people, and laugh at things that make no sense.

And yet, it is in these imperfections that we find our greatest humanity.

As John Legend sings, “Love your curves and all your edges, all your perfect imperfections.” Our flaws are not bugs in the system. They are features of our souls. They give us character. They teach us humility. They allow us to forgive.

In medicine, I’ve learned that healing is not just about eliminating disease — but embracing the wholeness of the person. Their frailty, their resilience, their stories. The art of medicine — like the art of life — lies in holding space for imperfection.

Morality, Conscience, and the Freedom to Choose

A machine may be programmed to behave ethically. But only humans can choose to live morally.

That distinction matters. The ability to make ethical decisions is not simply about following rules. It is about wrestling with dilemmas, being guided by conscience, and sometimes paying a price for doing the right thing.

In Chinese culture, this is captured in the phrase “做人的道理” — the principles of being human. These include respect, honesty, responsibility, and kindness. Not because someone told us to, or because it was programmed into us — but because we believe in them.

To be human, then, is to have the freedom to choose goodness. To stand by values even when it is inconvenient. To feel the weight of consequences. To take responsibility.

AI does not yet — and may never — bear that burden. Humans do.

Laughter, Absurdity, and the Soul of Humor

There’s something irreducibly human about laughter. Not all of it is logical. In fact, some of the best comedy is delightfully illogical — think of the “Mo Lei Tau” (无厘头) comedy of Stephen Chow, which literally means “makes no sense.”

Why do we laugh at things that don’t make sense? Because life often doesn’t make sense. And laughter is how we cope with the contradictions.

This is something AI doesn’t understand, no matter how well it tells a joke. It may understand the structure of humor, but not the spirit of it. Because true humor is born of tension — of irony, of timing, of shared cultural and emotional context. AI laughs because it is trained to do so – but we sometimes laugh until our sides hurt and tears roll down our cheeks because we just cannot help it.

We laugh, sometimes, to avoid crying. We laugh because we survived. And because we recognize ourselves in the ridiculousness of life.

Being Human is a Daily Decision

All of this leads me to one simple but powerful belief: being human is not just a state — it’s a decision.

Every day, we choose to be human when we write lyrics from the heart instead of outsourcing it to an algorithm. We choose to be human when we show kindness even when no one is watching. We choose to be the humans we are when we make art, tell stories, feel deeply, care too much, laugh too loudly, and cry too freely.

We choose humanity when we fall short and try again. When we forgive others — and ourselves. When we strive for meaning, not just output.

AI may be better at games, calculations, and even composing music. But it cannot long for beauty. It cannot ask, “What’s the point of all this?” It cannot sit silently in awe of a sunset or tremble with fear before an uncertain future.

Those are human experiences. And they are sacred.

Barbie’s epiphany connected to the song “What Was I Made For?” is the moment she realizes that her purpose is not to be an idealized doll designed for others, but to choose her own path as a human being with real emotions, imperfections, and agency.

Being human is not just what we are – it is a choice.

Final Reflections

In this age of AI, we are not diminished. We are called higher.

As machines become better at thinking, we must become better at feeling. As AI optimizes logic, we must reclaim our soul. And as algorithms take over more tasks, we must remember: the point of life was never just to do. It was to be.

So let us embrace our humanity not as a liability, but as a gift. Let us teach our children not just how to code, but how to care. Let us write our own lyrics, even if AI can sing the tune.

Because in the end, being human is not about how fast we compute or how much we produce. It is about how well we love, laugh, and live.

William Hwang is a Haematologist who has a special interest in treating patients with blood cancers and other diseases with haematopoietic stem cell transplants and other cell therapies.

A lifetime in medicine leaves more than memories — it shapes who we become.

In the final part of our interview, Dr. Wong Hee Ong shares her hopes for the next generation of healers:

“I am a general physician who was taught to use my hands, my head, and my heart.”

Her words capture the timeless heart of medical humanities — the art of healing carried forward.

Watch the full conversation on YouTube.

In Part 2 of our interview, Dr. Wong Hee Ong reflects on her years of practice — the patients who shaped her, the challenges she overcame, and the compassion that guided her.

Tune in next week for the final part of this special 3 part series.

In this three-part conversation, filmed when she was 97 (she’s now 98 still going strong!), Dr. Wong Hee Ong reflects on a remarkable lifetime in medicine. From her early schooling years to her years shaping young doctors, she reminds us that medicine is not just a profession, but a calling of the heart.

Through humour, humility, and hard-won wisdom, Dr. Wong offers a glimpse into what it means to practise medicine with compassion and courage — lessons that remain timeless, even as the landscape of healthcare changes.

Please stay tuned next week for Part 2 of this inspiring conversation.

Dr Ngiam is an associate consultant at KKH Department of Child Development. She has clinical experience both in the public and private healthcare sectors, as well as the experience of being a mother of 3 children. She has been doodling and drawing comics since her primary school days. Eco-Anxious Mom is the manifestation of her multiple roles and passions.

He spoke about anecdotes — those small, personal stories that seem trivial at first, yet somehow stay with us longer than the data ever does.

It struck me that so much of our life in medicine still moves through anecdotes.

We teach through them.
We de-stress through them.
We bond over them — often during meal times, coffee breaks, or post-call decompressions when the adrenaline has faded and we begin, almost instinctively, to narrate.

“Do you remember that patient…?”

It’s how wisdom travels in hospitals — not through PowerPoint slides, but through memory and voice.

When Medicine Was More Story Than Science

Professor Ruth Richardson noted that early medical journals brimmed with anecdotes — letters, reflections, case vignettes — before the age of clinical trials shifted our gaze toward the aggregate. The voice of the observer slowly gave way to the voice of the statistician.

And perhaps rightly so. Anecdotes are imperfect witnesses. They overgeneralize, distort, and seduce. We cannot — and should not — build an entire discipline upon them.

Yet, as Hurwitz reminded us, anecdotes were once the heartbeat of medical writing: the narrative form through which clinicians made sense of uncertainty, and shared insight when evidence was still gathering its footing. They were how medicine thought out loud.

The Stories We Tell When No One Is Listening

Even today, when the official languages of medicine are objectivity and outcome measures, our informal conversations remain deeply narrative.

In the safety of the pantry or the lift lobby, we tell each other stories to process what cannot be captured in a chart: the patient who surprised us, the one who reminded us of someone we love, the moment we nearly broke down in the bathroom but didn’t.

These small exchanges are not noise; they are meaning-making.

They are how we metabolize the emotional residue of clinical work.

Anecdotes are not just about what happened — they are how we affirm who we are.

Inherited Narratives

I began to think about the anecdotes I inherited — from mentors, colleagues, even patients.

There was the story of the doctor who wept after a complication but told no one until years later. The nurse who still carried a patient’s thank-you note folded into her wallet. The senior who always said, “Never stand over a patient when you can sit beside them.”

These stories are never written in textbooks, yet they are what truly teach us medicine.

Each one carries an unspoken value system: humility, endurance, kindness. They become part of our muscle memory — guiding how we act long after we’ve forgotten the evidence tables.

And sometimes, they contain their own quiet warnings — reminders of what not to repeat: the culture of stoicism mistaken for strength, the subtle silencing of emotion, the easy use of labels like “non-compliant” or “difficult.”

Every anecdote is both inheritance and invitation — an offering to reflect, to choose what to keep and what to lay down.

The Anecdote as Counterpoint

Perhaps anecdotes endure precisely because they resist neat categorization.

They sit in the grey zones — between data and feeling, between fact and meaning.

They remind us that evidence may guide action, but stories guide understanding.

Anecdotes are not enemies of science; they are its counterpoint. They whisper what numbers cannot say: that healing involves not only the measurable, but also the memorable.

As medicine becomes increasingly technologized — with AI scribes, dashboards, and datasets — I find myself wanting to protect the unquantifiable: the corridor story, the sigh between sentences, the human shorthand of “you had to be there.”

We shouldn’t romanticize anecdotes, but we shouldn’t dismiss them either. They are the oral tradition of medicine — the pulse beneath the protocol.

Anecdotes are how we stay connected to one another in a system that too often rewards efficiency over empathy.

They are how we remember that behind every data point lies a person, and behind every clinician, a story worth telling.

Reflection

When Professor Hurwitz ended his talk, he reminded us that anecdotes are not relics of a pre-scientific age. They are bridges — between the measurable and the meaningful.

We inherit these stories not just to repeat them, but to reimagine them — to carry forward what matters most.

Because in the end, while data helps us understand disease, it is stories that help us understand people — and ourselves.

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
— Mary Oliver

Victoria Ekstrom is a consultant gastroenterologist at Singapore General Hospital and co-lead for Narratives in Medicine at SingHealth Duke Medical Humanities Institute. With a background in behavioral science, she is passionate about the okintersection of medicine, communication, and the arts. Through her writing, she explores how narratives and humanities can transform patient care and medical education.