This week I had an experience that caught me off guard—not just because of what happened, but because of how I responded to it. It was a doctor’s visit. Doctor #18, to be exact. I’ve seen seventeen other medical professionals over the past few years, trying to get help for nerve pain in my arms, and not one of them had offered a direction that felt remotely helpful. This one—Dr. Sutherland—did.

But not at first.

I went into this appointment ready to try almost anything. I had reached that point in the pain journey where you’re just looking for relief. We

were about to leave on vacation, so my wife Yvette was able to come with me. What we didn’t expect was to wait nearly 90 minutes past my scheduled time. That didn’t help my nerves—pun intended. Because of past trauma and difficult experiences with the medical system, I don’t arrive at appointments with a full tank of trust. I was already feeling anxious. Pacing. Yvette sat patiently nearby, scrolling her phone, grounded as always.

Then came a hard knock on the door.

Before I could catch my breath, in barreled a very tall, very broad man—6’3”, 250+ pounds—with zero eye contact, no greeting, and a brusque, “What are we here for?”

That was the moment everything in me wanted to shut down. I froze. It was hard to even remember what I was there for. The thoughts that came rushing in were sharp and critical: Can you at least say hello? Can you take five seconds to glance at the MRIs that have been up on the screen for the last 45 minutes?

But something else in me also came online—a quieter part.

I remembered what the woman at the front desk had said earlier: Dr. Sutherland takes his time with his patients. I remembered that I am a patient. So I took a breath. Then another. And another. I let myself speak, calmly and slowly, even as he continued to avoid eye contact and direct his attention instead toward Yvette.

This was deeply uncomfortable. But I also had an awareness in that moment: I don’t know what kind of day he’s had. I don’t know what kind of month, or year, or decade this man is living. I only know that I need help—and I don’t want to let my nervous system’s alarm bells sabotage the chance to receive it.

I’ve learned over the years that I tend to be hypervigilant in situations like this. Trauma does that. It wires you to scan every micro-expression, every gesture, for signs of danger. And that vigilance makes it hard—sometimes impossible—for others to feel at ease around you. It’s a vicious loop.

But this time was different.

In the past, I might’ve shut down or gotten angry, walked out, and labeled this another “doctor with terrible bedside manner.” But instead, I took responsibility for the one thing I can control: my own nervous system. I breathed. I calmed. I stayed.

And something shifted.

Eventually, Dr. Sutherland sat down. He looked at my MRIs. He listened. He asked thoughtful questions. He discouraged the steroid shot I had originally come to ask about, and instead, he recommended a different procedure for my lower back that might actually target the root of the pain. Then, he surprised me.

He shared a personal story—about his daughter. For over a decade, he tried everything to help her with her own chronic pain. Eventually, he took her to the Mayo Clinic, where they discovered the issue and treated it. Today, she’s thriving. And then he looked me in the eyes and told me, with deep sincerity, that I need to go to the Mayo Clinic.

I felt tears well up.

This man—whose entrance had triggered all my alarms—ended up being the first doctor, out of eighteen, to give me a path forward that actually felt grounded, considered, and helpful. But I would have missed all of it if I’d clung to my old belief that it’s the doctor’s job to make me feel safe.

That belief isn’t wrong—but it’s not always realistic.

There’s a leadership lesson here, too. In business, in healthcare, in relationships—how often are we faced with people who lack the skills wewish they had? The question is: how do we navigate that? Do we disconnect, shut down, or walk away? Or do we breathe, stay curious, and do our best to bring presence into a space that feels tense?

This doesn’t mean accepting mistreatment or staying in harm’s way. But it does mean recognizing that people are often doing the best they can with the tools they’ve got. And more importantly—it means learning to work with our own nervous system, so we can show up differently… and maybe even change the outcome.

Dr. Sutherland may never be the warm, engaging, eye-contact-making doctor I wish he were. But he showed up with insight, compassion, and care—after I created space for that to emerge. I’ll never know what might have happened if I had met him with the defensiveness and anxiety that once felt so familiar to me. But I do know what happened when I met him with breath, awareness, and a bit of grace.

That made all the difference.

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Takeaway for leaders (and humans):

When someone doesn’t meet your expectations—pause. Breathe. Stay curious. Let go of the story that they should be different, and instead ask yourself what’s possible if you show up differently.

Sometimes, help arrives when we create space for it.

Here’s To Your Greatness,
Misti Burmeister