What Does It Mean to Be a Doctor?

Recently, I received a short video clip from one of my parents’ friends. It was a comedic reenactment of an angry woman in her 60s confronting her doctor at a restaurant while he was dining with his wife. She accused him of not listening to her and dismissing her condition — Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. The clip was filmed in a style reminiscent of the '90s, though it might have been more recent.

Watching it made me feel awkward and sad. I felt for both the doctor and the patient. I posted it as a story on social media, curious about how others would react. Two hours later, my mom called and urged me to take it down. “It’s too demeaning for your doctor friends,” she said. “You’re a doctor yourself!”

That made me pause. There was more here to unpack.

The reason I posted it in the first place was that I had a similar conversation with one of my clients just that week. She felt angry and dismissed by her doctor. Sadly, it's not uncommon for people who come to me for holistic care to share similar stories.

When I worked as a nurse in the emergency room, alongside a team of doctors and nurses, I sometimes witnessed that same dismissive attitude. Part of it, I think, comes from the pressure of the work. Part of it is fear — fear of being in the patient’s place. So medical staff create an invisible wall: an us vs. them dynamic.

Over my 15 years in the hospital, I often found myself advocating for patients — sometimes being dismissed myself. “You’re not thinking like an emergency doctor,” one physician told me. Many were simply annoyed by my questions or concerns.

But don’t get me wrong — I’ve also witnessed miracles in the ER. I’ve seen people come back from the brink of death, stroke patients regain movement, lives saved from hemorrhage and heart attacks. I have immense respect for modern medicine, and I regularly refer patients to medical specialists.

Still, I find myself reflecting — now as a doctor of Chinese Medicine, a holistic practitioner of energy medicine — on what it really means to be a doctor. Where are my roots? What kind of doctor am I?

Thousands of years ago, the medicine man or woman was also the wise one — the intuitive, the shaman. They understood the ways of herbs, nature, and the spirit. People came to them not just for physical healing, but for guidance, for emotional and spiritual support. Their words held power.

About two thousand years ago, the early medical texts in China and India wove spirituality into everyday life. Then, around a thousand years ago — during the dark ages in Europe — the roots of what we now call modern medicine began to emerge in Iran and the Middle East through the work of Ibn Sina (Avicenna), the father of modern medicine. He was a scholar, philosopher, poet, astronomer — a master of many disciplines. His medical text The Canon became foundational in Europe and shaped the future of medical education.

In Europe, monasteries were likely the birthplaces of medicine, as they housed manuscripts and knowledge. But as religious and scientific roles grew apart, the image of the physician shifted — from spiritual healer to logical problem-solver. People turned to priests for matters of the soul, and to doctors for the body.

By the 20th century, in the wake of world wars and medical breakthroughs, the modern doctor emerged as a kind of hero. I think of Chekhov — a doctor, a writer, a deeply humane observer of the human condition. His archetype of a physician is someone who can amputate a limb to save a life, but also sit beside a patient and offer comfort and presence.

Today, with religion fading from its traditional role and the spirit separated from the body in mainstream medicine, many patients are looking for doctors who can treat the whole person. But most medical professionals are trained in a narrow specialty, without the time or interest to address the broader human experience. This gap often leads to disappointment, a sense of being dismissed or dehumanized. And yet, there are rare doctors who shine — like precious jewels — in this system.

Growing up in Iran, my first memory of a doctor was my grandfather — my mother’s father. He was an eye surgeon, and in his later years, he worked from home. One of the rooms was converted into a clinic. I remember patients lining up in the courtyard to see him. They brought gifts, and many shared stories of how he had saved their eyesight. He was deeply respected, not just as a doctor, but as a person. He had a clear routine: morning facial massage with cream, daily walks, early dinners. Those small habits, to me, reflect the qualities I hope to embody in my own practice.

As a holistic doctor, I see myself fulfilling a role that once belonged to religious figures — holding a neutral space for people. I help them feel heard, calm, validated, and hopeful. If I see someone harming themselves, I speak from the Chinese Medicine perspective. I use nature-based remedies, guided by the Five Elements, and practice a medicine that blends the doctor, the wise woman, and the priest.

Medicine, at its core, reflects a culture’s needs and beliefs. The growing popularity of holistic approaches is not a fad — it’s a signal. A signal that something vital is missing in our current medical system. People are yearning to be seen as whole beings — body, mind, and spirit.

(Image is from Strega Nona by Tomie dePaola)