The Sensual Nature of Our Care

 “But we have ways within each other that will never be said by anyone.” — Rumi, from the poem "A Great Wagon"

It might feel risky to acknowledge, but there is a sensuality to our work in healthcare—something intimate, tactile, deeply human. We rarely name it, perhaps because it gets conflated with sexuality or feels too vulnerable for the professional realm. But Rumi, in A Great Wagon, does not shy away. His language is infused with desire, breath, touch, and the aching beauty of embodiment. And he invites us to recognize that love and connection are not abstract—they live in the senses, in presence, in how we offer ourselves to the moment.

Consider the memory of holding pressure on a bleeding wound, your hand firm over a stranger’s skin, the air around thick with urgency.  Or the still pulsing umbilical cord accompanied by the sound of a child’s first breath.  The quiet intimacy of placing a stethoscope to a chest and listening—really listening—to the symphony of life unfolding inside. Or the clamminess of a patient’s hand as you share difficult news.  The antiseptic smell of an operating room competing with the stench of cauterized or infected flesh.  There are so many sights, sounds, sensations and smells that we in healthcare have come to accept as “normal,” but really aren’t.  The unique nature of these experiences with any individual patient solidifies meaning and deepens connection.  We are drawn into the immediacy of touch, eye contact, voice—which form the raw material of our caring.

Rumi’s poem expresses this truth. He merges the spiritual and sensual into something sacred, reminding us to show up with our whole selves in order to be present to another’s whole self.  To ignore this would be to miss one of the most powerful dimensions of our work.  Acknowledging it doesn’t mean crossing boundaries—it means deepening our awareness. It means honoring the ways we connect not just with minds, but with bodies and hearts.

And yet, carrying this depth of asymmetrical connection can be isolating, particularly within a professional culture where our training and socialization gives little if any attention to this aspect of our work.  That is why peer support is so essential.  Our colleagues are often the only ones who truly understand the complexity of this dance—of staying present, grounded, and compassionate while immersed in the tactile reality of suffering and healing. They are the ones who can say, “I felt that too,” and mean it.  Peer connection gives us a safe space to name what often goes unnamed—the emotional and sensual toll of our work—and to be reminded that we’re not alone in carrying it.

So today, honor the fullness of your presence. Pay attention to the sensations that remind you: you’re alive, and so are they. And let your connections with peers be part of that beauty—an anchor and a witness to the wonder of it all.  Because when we allow ourselves to be moved by the unspoken and the mysterious, and allow others to walk that path with us, we offer something far more than medicine. We offer love, embodied. And you might even say that is Holy.