Published 8 April 2025

An elderly woman comes in for a routine follow-up and a repeat of her chronic prescription. It’s the first time I’m seeing her, so as is my practice, I draw a genogram. She is a widow, living alone. A few years ago, she lost both her husband and her only child, a daughter, in quick succession.

As she speaks, tears come. It is still difficult for her to be alone; she misses them deeply. Her younger sister, who is visiting, has accompanied her to the clinic. With the patient’s permission, I invite her sister to join the consultation so we can discuss her care together.

When the loss of her husband and daughter comes up again, the patient starts crying once more. Her sister turns to her and says, “Don’t cry, you must be strong now.”

I feel a tightening in my chest, a wave of frustration - perhaps even anger - at how quickly the patient’s emotions are being dismissed. I take a breath and gently respond: “It’s okay to cry. You are sad.”

Later, I reflect on this moment. I wonder - was my validation enough? Did my response offer the patient what she needed, or did it land somewhere unheard? And what of her sister - what did she make of my words?

Should I have explained, explicitly, the importance of allowing grief to be felt and expressed? Or was my role-modelling of validation sufficient? And then, there is my own response - the frustration, the anger. Can I allow myself these emotions without judgment? Can I sit with my own reaction, just as I encourage my patients to sit with theirs?

As doctors, we are trained to assess, to diagnose, to treat. But moments like these remind me that our role is also to witness - to create space for emotions that could possibly be medicated away. And in doing so, we must learn to extend the same grace to ourselves.