Medicine is getting faster, louder, and more efficient, and many of us feel something quietly slipping away. We talk about burnout, moral injury, and depersonalized care, but the deeper question is often left untouched: How do we keep the soul of medicine alive while building systems that must scale?

I encountered that question in an unexpected place, not in a policy meeting, not in a spreadsheet, and not in an architectural blueprint, but at a piano.

Years ago, Fu Jen Catholic University in Taiwan faced an “impossible mission.” We had a medical school, but no teaching hospital of our own. In a world where training sites shape identity, culture, and clinical judgment, that absence was more than an administrative gap; it was a threat to the integrity of medical education. Building a hospital from the ground up required not only funding and planning, but a durable human center: a reason to keep going when the numbers did not look kind.

At the time, I was trained as a surgeon and served in university leadership. But I also carried another lifelong identity: I was a classical pianist. Like many clinicians, I had kept that part of myself “outside of medicine,” as if it were a private hobby unrelated to professional life. I would later learn the opposite: that our nonmedical passions can become essential tools for building humane medical institutions.

The synergy of a dual identity: surgeon and pianist

In fundraising, I discovered something that surprised me. A slide deck can explain a project, but it rarely moves a room. A piano performance, however, can create a shared emotional space where people remember why healing matters.

At several critical moments in our campaign, a single piece (sometimes Chopin) did what my best administrative language could not. It reminded donors and colleagues that a hospital is not merely an infrastructure project. It is a moral promise. People did not give because they admired a building plan; they gave because they could feel the human meaning beneath it.

That experience changed the way I thought about leadership. A physician’s life outside of medicine is not a distraction. It can deepen our leadership inside medicine. When we bring our whole selves into the work, we model a kind of professionalism that includes empathy, patience, and reverence for life, qualities that no KPI can fully capture.

Designing a healing environment, not just a functional machine

As our plans moved forward, we resisted the temptation to treat the hospital as a purely technical system. Of course, we needed safety, efficiency, and modern workflows. But we also needed an environment that communicated dignity.

That philosophy became visible in our public spaces. In the hospital lobby, a monumental ceramic artwork, The Tree of Life, was installed as a centerpiece. It was not decoration. It was a message: Patients entering this building are not “cases” passing through a pipeline. They are human beings who deserve to be held with warmth.

This is what I mean by a hospital “with a soul.” It is not sentimental branding. It is design that aligns the institution’s physical space with its ethical intent.

Passing humanism down: a duet as mentorship

Humanism cannot rely on a founder’s personality. It must be transmitted through culture.

At a recent book event reflecting on our hospital’s journey, I played a piano duet with a second-year medical student, a gifted musician as well as a future clinician. To some, that might look like a charming performance. To me, it was mentorship in its most direct form.

I wanted younger colleagues to see something plainly: Humanism is not an elective. If we want trainees to retain empathy, imagination, and humility, we must show them that those qualities are not “soft extras.” They are central to the kind of doctor patients trust.

Spiritual care as a systemic response to suffering

Even with thoughtful design and strong culture, medicine still confronts a reality we often underaddress: Illness is not only biological. It is existential.

That is why we institutionalized “spiritual care” as a formal program, not to promote a religion, but to support the human questions that arise when people suffer. Pain often brings fear, meaning-making, and grief. Families struggle with guilt. Patients face identity loss. Clinicians encounter helplessness.

Modern medicine excels at treating bodies. But if we ignore the inner dimension of suffering, we unintentionally intensify the loneliness of illness. A structured spiritual care team gives patients and families a place where their deepest questions are treated as legitimate, not as inconveniences that slow throughput.

This approach crosses religious boundaries. The word “soul” may sound old-fashioned, but the reality it points to is universal: Every person wants to be seen as more than a diagnosis.

What this taught me about burnout and institution-building

Building this hospital taught me a lesson I did not learn in residency: We do not protect the soul of medicine by working harder. We protect it by designing institutions that honor human meaning, and by allowing clinicians to remain fully human.

Our passions (music, art, writing, faith, nature, craft) are not merely “self-care” after the shift ends. They are reservoirs of empathy and attention. They can also become leadership tools that shape the moral architecture of an organization.

So I ask my colleagues a question that has guided me ever since:

What is your piano?

Find it. Practice it. Share it.

It may not only restore your own soul; it may help restore the soul of the institutions we build and serve.

Gerald Kuo, a doctoral student in the Graduate Institute of Business Administration at Fu Jen Catholic University in Taiwan, specializes in health care management, long-term care systems, AI governance in clinical and social care settings, and elder care policy. He is affiliated with the Home Health Care Charity Association and maintains a professional presence on Facebook, where he shares updates on research and community work. Kuo helps operate a day-care center for older adults, working closely with families, nurses, and community physicians. His research and practical efforts focus on reducing administrative strain on clinicians, strengthening continuity and quality of elder care, and developing sustainable service models through data, technology, and cross-disciplinary collaboration. He is particularly interested in how emerging AI tools can support aging clinical workforces, enhance care delivery, and build greater trust between health systems and the public.