My patient set down his knitting sticks, leaned over, and said in Spanish: “Wow. This went by fast.”
I thought he meant the movie we were watching. Ciro Guerra’s “El abrazo de la serpiente.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, answering in Spanish.
“La vida,” he said. “Pasó volando.”
He was a patient I met as a volunteer back in college. Our conversations unfolded because I could meet him in his own language. Spanish turned a hospital bed into a place where he became more than a diagnosis. I heard about the life he shared with his late wife, learned of his children’s hobbies, and, more than once, the story of how he finally won his mother-in-law’s approval.
These early conversations led me to deepen my love of language as a medical student at Stanford.
I knew language would be a big part of my career as a doctor
In college, a medical Spanish course at Yale transformed how I understood patient care. We practiced explaining conditions and conducting clinical conversations entirely in Spanish. We studied health reporting from across Latin America and worked through practice cases involving linguistic barriers to care.
The class pushed my perspective beyond English and an America-centric system, giving me the foundation for global health work and health equity research that ultimately inspired my interest in medicine.
Now, whenever I interact with a patient as a medical student, I picture my own immigrant mother, who speaks little English, in the exam chair. Would she feel safe? Would my words reassure her — or push her to nod along politely while hiding her confusion?
Trust, I learned, is the real currency of medicine.
Knowing additional languages has opened countless doors
Outside of my coursework as a medical student at Stanford, I serve at free clinics and vaccination drives, where many patients arrive alone, without caregivers who can translate. At vaccination sites, staff and professors call on me to step in as a translator.
Last month, during a free clinic shift, I was able to speak my dialect, Fujianese, with a patient for the first time since coming to California. It was a humbling and emotional moment for both of us. I helped take her history and clarified the specific legal and insurance barriers she faced to the physicians. As she spoke through tears about her uncertainty and fears, I stayed with her while we connected her to community organizations working to secure alternative forms of health coverage for undocumented patients after her Medicaid coverage was dismantled.
The stakes are real. When language barriers stand between patients and clinicians, studies show more medical errors, delayed diagnoses, and lower use of preventive primary care.
I look forward to further connecting with patients in their own languages
On one of the evenings I spent with that patient at the hospital, who shared his life story with me, the overhead speakers crackled: “The wards will be closed to visitors in 10 minutes.”
Shortly afterward, one of the patient-care assistants opened his room door to check that we heard the announcement.
I remember him saying, “I think I’ll be fine. My wife will be coming later.” My patient then pointed at me. “He can help me until she gets here.”
The assistant’s eyes met mine. “That’s wonderful,” she said.
