She was ninety years old and spent most of her days in the psychiatric ward screaming at the top of her lungs. No words, just pure sound.

One afternoon, a technician mentioned a patient receiving chemotherapy who had been refusing sponge baths and leaving her meal trays untouched. She was losing weight quickly, and everyone was concerned. The nurse believed it was likely due to nausea from the chemotherapy, which seemed reasonable.

Medical school teaches you how to recognize patterns. You learn which symptoms match which disease, which test confirms which diagnosis, which treatment protocol follows which guideline. The training is rigorous, precise, and necessary.

I used to think that being an agent of change meant mastering research, building models, and understanding data. But somewhere between patient encounters and long clinic days, I realized something numbers could never teach me. Change begins with stories.