When I was training to become a surgeon, there was an unspoken belief that the operating room was the pinnacle of the profession. The OR was where you proved yourself. Clinic was something to get through on the way to surgery later in the week. At least, that’s how it often felt to me.

Now, ten years into practice, what some would call mid-career, I’ve realized something unexpected: The clinic is the heart of my practice. The clinic is where I gain energy. It’s where I connect. It’s where I learn.

Of course, I still love to operate. I love the intensity and focus of surgery, whether it’s a five-minute carpal tunnel release or a six-hour finger replantation. The operating room demands precision, preparation, and discipline. There’s nothing else quite like it. But the clinic is different.

The clinic is where I sit across from another human being and hear their story. It’s where I hold an injured hand in mine and try to understand not only the pathology, but the fear, frustration, uncertainty, and hope that come with it.

As I’ve grown more comfortable diagnosing problems and treating patients, I’ve noticed something else happening: I’ve opened up what I’ve come to think of as my “heart space.” By that, I mean the emotional and mental space needed to truly be present with another person.

Surprisingly, one of the things that has expanded that heart space the most has been ambient listening technology and artificial intelligence. Years ago, much of clinic felt fragmented. I would ask questions while simultaneously typing into a computer, trying not to miss details while also trying to maintain eye contact. Like many physicians, I often felt divided between the patient and the documentation.

Now, when I sit down with a patient, I explain that we’re using an ambient listening system. Then the technology fades into the background. We simply talk.

I can focus entirely on the patient’s story, their expressions, their concerns, and their body language. I’m no longer staring at a screen trying to construct a note in real time. Instead, I can be the best human interpreter of their experience possible. It has been transformative.

One of my favorite moments in clinic now is surprisingly simple. I’ll examine a patient with a hand injury, hold their hand in mine, feel their pulse, and say, “Your heart is beating strong and regular.” Then we continue with the rest of the exam.

That small moment matters. It centers both of us. It reminds the patient that there is another human being fully present with them.

I don’t immediately turn to a keyboard. I don’t break eye contact to document. I stay engaged. The technology, paradoxically, has allowed me to become more human.

To the trainees coming up behind us: Don’t underestimate the privilege of clinic. As surgeons, we are invited into incredibly intimate moments in people’s lives. Patients trust us with pain, fear, disability, uncertainty, and hope. Part of our job is not only to diagnose and operate, but also to absorb some of that pain and, when possible, give something positive back.

Not every clinic day is easy. Some encounters are emotionally draining. Some leave you exhausted.

But most days, the experience fills me up rather than empties me. Both the patient and the physician walk out feeling better.

I still love surgery. I always will. But over time, I’ve realized the operating room is not the only place where healing happens. Sometimes healing begins in the quiet space between two people sitting face to face, fully listening to one another.

That is the space I continue to grow.

Michael Franco is a plastic surgeon.