The Quiet Practice of Reverence
“Reverence is not a feeling but a way of seeing.” – Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel
With our value as clinicians too often measured in clicks, metrics, and minutes, it can be easy to lose sight of an essential and very human aspect of our work: reverence—the deep respect for someone or something. Not in a ceremonial or distant or religious sense, but as a way of approaching the work itself so that it becomes a way of seeing the person in front of us not as a problem to solve, but as a life entrusted, however briefly, into our care.
I had this idea of “reverence” on my mind recently while seeing a patient during what might be described as a typical day. His “problem list” was extensive, my schedule was tight, and I noted my inbox already overflowing. As I moved through the usual questions, a slight hesitation in one of his answers caused me to pause. I turned from the computer and simply asked, “What feels most important for us to talk about today?” What followed was not a medical complaint, but a story of loss, fear, grief, and quiet loneliness. That moment didn’t change the diagnosis or treatment plan dramatically, but it changed the encounter. It served as a necessary reminder that beneath every “chief complaint” and in the midst of every “busy schedule” is a human story waiting, sometimes cautiously, to be honored.
While “reverence” is not a term found in clinical guidelines, its effects are reflected in what we do measure. Studies consistently show that patients who feel seen and heard by their clinicians have better adherence, improved outcomes, and higher satisfaction. Clinicians who experience meaning and connection in their work report lower rates of burnout. At its core, reverence may simply be another way of describing presence—that posture of bringing our full attention and respect to the moment and the person before us.
Reverence doesn’t require more time so much as a different way of being within the time we already have. It might look like a brief pause before entering the room. A moment of eye contact before turning to the screen. A genuine curiosity about the person beyond the chart. I find looking directly into a patient’s eyes, even briefly, can help welcome it into our shared space. It extends beyond our patients as well, to the colleagues and teammates we work alongside. It also honors the teachers who shaped us. Each person carries their own story, their own burdens, their own quiet acts of care. When we approach each other with even a small degree of reverence, our work has the opportunity to feel less transactional and more shared.
This week, consider a simple experiment. In one patient encounter, one colleague interaction, or one moment of teaching, pause just long enough to remember: this matters. Not in a grand, overwhelming way, but in a quiet, human one. Let that awareness shape how you listen, how you speak, how you show up. Share what you experience with your PeerRx partner or another colleague. Reverence, it turns out, is not something extra we add to our work. It may be what allows us to rediscover why we chose it in the first place. No one cares alone.