This past year, I’ve found myself in many different rooms (on podcasts, in boardrooms with legislators, and in conversations with program directors at medical schools and hospitals) talking about what humanity truly means in clinical and caregiving professions.

I hear back from my third- and fourth-year medical students about how this work shows up for them in clinics, auditions, and residency interviews. They describe moments when an intentional emphasis on humanity, through our coaching work, partnerships, and conversations that slow things down, has changed how they listen, how they speak, and how they show up under pressure. They notice it in how they navigate conflict, uncertainty, and hierarchy. They feel it in their bodies when a room softens, or when it doesn’t.

There are a lot of people thinking about this work right now. And that matters.

This past month, I’ve been thinking about how humanity in medicine connects to another word we often misunderstand: peace.

In clinical and caregiving fields where we are trained explicitly and implicitly to smooth our edges, to keep things moving, to de-escalate quickly, to avoid conflict in the name of comfort, or (even worse) professionalism, peace can start to look like silence. It can feel like compliance. Like not “rocking the boat.” Like absorbing discomfort so the system keeps functioning.

But real peace is different. Real peace has a spine.

The cost of false peace

I’ve seen this kind of peace show up in exam rooms and workrooms in quiet, often unnoticed ways. A trainee slowing down when a patient is angry, not because the anger is acceptable, but because the fear underneath it needs space. A nurse naming a concern that everyone else feels but no one wants to say out loud. A resident choosing to ask one more question when the algorithm says it’s time to move on.

None of these moments are dramatic. None of them make headlines. But they change the temperature of the room. They protect dignity. And they often prevent harm we only notice later: burnout, mistrust, missed diagnoses, moral injury.

The version of peace that asks clinicians to stay quiet, absorb disrespect, or override their own instincts is not neutral. It is costly. Over time, that false peace erodes trust, fractures teams, and teaches trainees that survival requires self-erasure.

I hear this most clearly from students, residents, and even attendings who tell me they are “doing fine” while their bodies say otherwise. They describe learning when not to speak, when not to question, when not to feel. They learn how to read the room quickly, how to disappear just enough to stay safe. Eventually, this kind of peace becomes indistinguishable from numbness, and numbness is not a sustainable clinical skill.

Real peace is profoundly ordinary

Real peace, by contrast, is profoundly ordinary. It shows up in small, human moments: a pause before reacting, a breath before speaking, a gentler tone, a shift in posture. It’s the decision to stay curious rather than defensive. These are not grand gestures or sweeping policy changes. They are tiny, learnable skills.

And they matter.

They matter especially during seasons when our conversations fracture easily. During the holidays, tensions rise at the dinner table. In medicine, they rise at the exam table, in the break room, and in the hallway between patients. Stress, hierarchy, fatigue, and fear all compete for control of the room.

These small acts of peace are skills, not personality traits. They can be practiced and taught.

• A pause before responding interrupts escalation.
• A breath before speaking signals safety, to yourself and to others.
• A curious question (“Help me understand what this means to you?” “What are your worries?”) can shift a conversation that feels stuck.
• Naming what you observe (“I’m noticing this feels tense. Are you noticing the same?”) often steadies a room more than pretending everything is fine.

None of these techniques require more time, more staffing, or more resources. They require permission to be human in spaces that often reward performance over presence.

If we care about humanity in medicine, we have to ask where peace is being taught, and where it’s being punished. Are trainees supported when they speak up? Are clinicians rewarded for clarity and care, or only for speed and output? Do our curricula and cultures make room for moral courage, or do they quietly train it out of people?

Peace with a spine deepens professionalism.

Peace with a spine does not undermine professionalism. It deepens it. It creates safer learning environments, more honest teams, and more trustworthy care. When institutions model this kind of peace, they teach future clinicians that integrity and humanity are not extracurricular. They are core competencies.

I offer this simple check-in question to clinicians, trainees, and caregivers:

What does it mean to bring peace into this moment?

• At this point in your training?
• In this curriculum?
• With this person?
• In this room?

Not peace as avoidance. Not peace as self-erasure. But the kind of peace that honors everyone involved, including you.

If you are holding complicated stories, or moving through a day that offers more conflict than connection, or if it feels like your work offers more friction than fulfillment, you are not doing it wrong. You are human.

Peace will not solve every systemic problem in medicine. But it changes how we move through them together. It reminds us that even in flawed systems, our daily choices still matter.

Peace is not passive. It has a spine. And practicing it, moment by moment, is one of the most human things we do in medicine.

Kathleen Muldoon is a certified coach dedicated to empowering authenticity and humanity in health care. She is a professor in the College of Graduate Studies at Midwestern University – Glendale, where she pioneered innovative courses such as humanity in medicine, medical improv, and narrative medicine. An award-winning educator, Dr. Muldoon was named the 2023 National Educator of the Year by the Student Osteopathic Medical Association. Her personal experiences with disability sparked a deep interest in communication science and public health. She has delivered over 200 seminars and workshops globally and serves on academic and state committees advocating for patient- and professional-centered care. Dr. Muldoon is co-founder of Stop CMV AZ/Alto CMV AZ, fostering partnerships among health care providers, caregivers, and vulnerable communities. Her expertise has been featured on NPR, USA Today, and multiple podcasts. She shares insights and resources through Linktree, Instagram, Substack, and LinkedIn, and her academic work includes a featured publication in The Anatomical Record.