Margo and I were friends. So when she recommended Christine as a life coach, I trusted enough to make the call. I had no idea what a life coach was; “CPCC” was meaningless to me. But after the intake call, her credibility and expertise were well-established, and she has been my coach ever since. That was 2005.
I spent $900 and a weekend on Zoom last month for Ozan Varol’s Moonshot Academy. I trusted in the value of the experience based on my interaction with Ozan’s Inner Circle to date—for two days I would give and receive peer coaching in a creative and challenging environment. And bonus, I met Andrew, Kes, and Nicole. Each of us aims to learn, share, expand our horizons, and do more good, hallelujah!
Kes’s last blog post goaded me to differentiate between credentials and credibility—my own and others’ alike. Do I deserve your trust in clinic just by virtue of my MD? What about when I speak and write on communication and leadership? Why should you trust me? Why should I trust you?
What are credentials? My list includes education, work/life experience, recommendations/references, and body of work (eg peer reviewed publications).
What establishes credibility? My list: Attitude (humility, honesty, curiosity, reciprocity); consistency and integrity; purpose; quality of relationships (and thus references). Christine’s credentials are solid. Like any good professional she expands her expertise with continuous study. But her credibility stems from her honesty and integrity—who she is. It’s why I refer patients and friends. Their feedback glows, and Christine’s credibility expands.
So perhaps credentials are superficial—what we’ve done, what’s immediately visible… And credibility is deep—who we are, what we’re about. I know which is more important to me.
I’ve said it before and I’ll keep saying it: People are suffering. Not everybody, but many, and many pretty badly. A prolonged global pandemic, unprecedented political polarization, escalating agitation for social justice—any one of these would be enough to push us over the edges of our sanity, and yet here we are, surviving all three and more.
I know it’s a challenging day when I’ve handled three phone calls before getting out of the car at work in the morning, and in the afternoon I think Hallelujah and give joyful thanks for one patient’s globally negative Review of Systems and another’s 95% oxygen saturation. But this is also the most fulfilling day. I did good work today.
Like most primary care doctors, my message volume has increased by about 30-50% in recent months. Complex questions and issues require time and patience to think and talk through. Many cannot be readily answered or solved, and the uncertainty calls out all of our anxieties and defenses, insecurities and grievances. Every patient experiences this historic moment in a unique and acute way. As the storm rolls over the neighborhood, I see it land on each doorstep, knowing what’s already in the house—how the furniture is arranged, what’s in the closets, maybe even the state of the foundation. I am allowed inside, invited to inspect and advise.
What an amazing privilege to be a physician in this moment, to witness, and to help. This is absolutely what I signed up for, what I’m called to, and what I trained for. I promise to do my best, and we will get through it together.
“You have a Chinese face,” my mom said to me. I was ten years old, maybe twelve. I can’t remember how it came up. But the message was twofold and clear: 1. What makes you different from almost everybody around you is visible. You cannot hide it, you cannot escape it. 2. People will judge you for it, so like it or not, to them, you represent us—your family, your ethnicity, all people who look like you.
That was it—straightforward truth, unvarnished. And I understood immediately. There was a gravity, an importance to her expression. It was not meant to apply pressure or expectation; Ma was simply teaching me about reality so I would be prepared to meet it when I left home, whether it was at the mall or farther out in the world. And I felt equipped to meet the challenge. We lived in an affluent suburb. My parents are both educated professionals. They are still leaders in the Chinese community, heading initiatives to liaise with “Americans” in business, government, and news media. Growing up I was known as the ‘smart’ kid—I fit the Asian nerd stereotype. And people were impressed that I was also bilingual, could paint classical Chinese art and perform classical Chinese dance, and also play volleyball and win at statewide speech tournaments. I thought I represented well.
I brought my Chinese-American identity with me to college, where I estimate about 20% of my fellow undergrads were Asian. In medical school, residency, and now in practice, there are still proportionally more Asians than in the general population—we are an overrepresented minority group among physicians. But we are still a minority, occupying proportionally few seats in medical and academic leadership.
Once again I find myself in this strange, middle, white-adjacent space, considering how I can and should use my unique identity for the greater good. How does an anti-racist message land differently/better/worse when I express it? How do my white colleagues hear me differently/better/worse from/than my Black and other underrepresented minority colleagues? Do I have a bridge role to play here? Or should I keep my head down and my mouth shut (this is unlikely)?
Someone told me recently that our racial (and other) identities do not matter at work. We should just think of ourselves as doctors, teachers, engineers, CEOs. I respectfully and vehemently disagree. If I were ‘just a doctor’ I would not be the only one fluent enough in Mandarin to care for non-English speaking Chinese patients without a translator. If my Black colleagues were ‘just doctors,’ they would not inspire young Black kids to become doctors themselves. If women physicians and surgeons were ‘just doctors,’ there would not be so many women physician groups all over social media, where countless of us seek reassurance that we are not insane, weak, and otherwise broken for all of the horrible, unbelievable-yet-totally-believable discriminatory experiences we endure at work in 2020. And so many of us would not have our own stories of women in medicine who went in front and inspired us, encouraged us, and gave us the wherewithal to follow.
Medical culture slowly evolves to see and treat patients as whole people, not just sets of diagnoses. When will we come around to seeing ourselves and our colleagues also as whole people, interconnected, inseparable, and in need of full integration, inside and out?
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The two articles below describe well how our ‘identity blind,’ assimilation-centered work cultures harm our Black colleagues, especially now. Please take a few minutes to read each, and really try to put yourself in the writers’ shoes. For us, taking this perspective is a choice; not so for them.
I just witnessed the lynching of a black man, but don’t worry Ted, I’ll have those deliverables to you end of day.
…If I am to perform my duties for 40 hours a week, it’s asinine to assume that the life I live outside of those 40 hours won’t rear its head. Whether I’m a sleep deprived single mother of two or a struggling college student who really needs this internship to graduate, the belief that only the part of me that fattens your bottom line is allowed in the workplace, is stifling.
This is magnified for young black professionals who are recruited for their culture, but told, in so many words, that their blackness and the struggles that come with it are to be left at the door.
…Forgive us if our work isn’t up to par, we just saw a lynching. Pardon us if we’re quiet in the Zoom meetings, we’re wondering if we’ll be the next hashtag. Spare some grace if we’re not at the company happy hour, because the hour of joy that most adults look forward to has been stolen from us due to the recent string of black death.
We’re biting our tongues, swallowing our rage and fighting back tears to remain professional because expressing that hurt caused by witnessing black death is considered more unprofessional, than black men and women actually being killed.
So if you can, please, be mindful. Your black employees are dealing with a lot.
You know what’s worse than America treating racism like a new album that just came out? People moving on like nothing ever happened.
Over the last few weeks, you’ve probably noticed most of your white colleagues have abandoned their outrage over George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, trading it in to enjoy summer’s finest things — sailing, bonfires and lake house getaways. But not us. Those tough and uncomfortable conversations everyone boasted about having have slowed (maybe even stopped), and once again Black trauma in the workplace has been placed back in the hands of Black employees. While I wish I could say everything about this is new or shocking, the truth is we’ve been here before.
…The day was July 7, 2016… That morning I did all the things one does to “maintain professionalism” because let’s be real, as Black professionals we often feel like we can’t be caught slipping (aka displaying feelings). But when putting my best face forward failed, my colleague asked what was wrong? I explained my stoicism was due to Sterling’s and Castile’s death, which was ultimately the result of the racism and systemic oppression that plagues our country, constantly making Black people a target.
What came next was disappointing but not surprising. Her response was, “Well, did you know him?” In that moment, just as it had in others, it became clear that Black trauma had no place, no weight of relevance in white workplaces. This wouldn’t be the last time Black trauma was ignored, displaced or misunderstood.
Healing Through Connection 