Last week, I asked a question: Can you hear me now? We explored the difference between hearing and listening, and I shared how my 22-year-old son unexpectedly became a consultant for the new pediatric practice I’m building.
Remember what he said? “Mom, I’m not a youth.”
Now, here’s the interesting part. Technically, he could be considered a youth, depending on which definition we’re using. I could have looked up the age brackets, explained the terminology, and defended my decision to include the word in the practice’s name. And I could have been technically correct. But I would have completely missed what he was telling me.
My son wasn’t asking me for a definition. He was telling me how he saw himself. He was telling me that a word I was considering using to describe the very population I wanted to serve didn’t resonate with him. And that’s where today’s conversation begins.
Hearing someone’s words is not the same as understanding their meaning.
Think about how often this happens in medicine. A patient tells us something, and we immediately begin interpreting it through our training, our experience, our assumptions, and sometimes our biases. We may even finish their sentences because we think we already know where they’re going. But do we?
After more than 35 years in medicine, I have learned that being the expert in the room doesn’t automatically make me the expert on the person sitting across from me. I may understand the disease, the diagnosis, and the treatment options. But my patient understands something I don’t: what it’s like to be them. And if I don’t make room for that knowledge, I can listen to every word and still misunderstand the conversation.
The same thing happens in parenting, leadership, and relationships. Sometimes we respond to what we think someone means instead of taking a moment to ask what they actually mean. And that brings me back to something I’ve been thinking about since last week. Listening is something I do. Feeling heard is something you experience. But understanding requires something more.
It requires curiosity, humility, and sometimes the willingness to discover that our interpretation was wrong. When my son said he wasn’t a youth, I didn’t need to correct him. I needed to understand him.
Imagine what might change in our exam rooms, workplaces, and homes if we approached more conversations that way. Not with “I know what you mean,” but with “Help me understand what you mean.”
This October, we’re exploring LURV: Listen, Understand, Remember, Validate. Last week was LISTEN. This week is UNDERSTAND. And I’m beginning to appreciate that these aren’t simply communication techniques. They are ways of making room for another human being’s experience.
Let’s Keep the Conversation Going
Here’s my question for you this week: Have you ever been in a conversation where someone heard every word you said but completely misunderstood what you meant? Or perhaps you’ve been on the other side and realized later that you misunderstood someone. What happened?
And for my fellow physicians and healthcare professionals, how do you check that your understanding of a patient’s concern matches what the patient is actually trying to communicate?
Hit reply. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
What Else Is Happening Around Here?
I’m back from the American Academy of Pediatrics National Conference & Exhibition in San Diego, and I’m still reflecting on the experience. One of the biggest gifts of that trip was having conversations with fellow physicians about the new practice I’m building for tweens, teens, and young adults. Their questions, encouragement, and perspectives helped affirm what I’ve been imagining.
But I also came home reminded that building something meaningful requires listening to the people it’s intended to serve. That’s one reason my son’s comment mattered so much.
I’m not simply trying to build another pediatric practice. I’m trying to build a healthcare experience that recognizes young people as active participants in their own care, not just passengers in an appointment arranged by their parents. And that means their voices must help shape what I’m creating.
I’m excited to share more as the practice takes shape.
Next Monday, we’ll explore the R in LURV: REMEMBER. Because there’s something powerful about not having to tell your story all over again.
Until next week,
Dr. Lulu®
Pediatrician | Speaker | Author | Physician Educator
