Some weeks, I wonder how we’re still doing it—how we keep practicing medicine in a system that seems designed to exhaust us. And then something happens that reminds me why I stay.

I remember in the stories of my patients. Like Sarah*, the 85 year old woman with heart failure and a history of strokes. When we first met she was in rough shape. Her breathing was shallow and jagged. She paused every few words to catch her breath. Her body was slowing but her mind was still sharp. She had outlived her husband, her siblings, and most of her friends. What she wanted most was simple: to stay home, to be comfortable, to be herself.

We enrolled her in hospice.

Over the next two years—yes, two full years—she lived well. She had a nurse who knew how she took her tea. A home health aide who helped with the things that had become harder. A team that knew her story. We provided full wrap around support for her body, mind, and spirit so that she didn’t need to go back to the hospital. Sarah was at home and she wasn’t alone. She also wasn’t rushed. We didn’t just see a diagnosis in a bed, we saw her living. And in that living, she was free.

I think about her a lot. I have had many similar patients over the years, but Sarah was the first. These experiences are transformative.

And I think about the six-year-old, Matty*, who was diagnosed with a degenerative neurological condition with no cure, no fix, no roadmap. But there was care. We did many home visits to provide therapy and symptom management. We played music and we read books. We offered Matty and his family honesty and softness and time. His life wasn’t long, but it was filled with presence. He was seen and he was loved.

Hospice isn’t perfect. The benefit is limited, the documentation specific and regulated, and the resources stretched thin. But within those constraints, I’ve found something I rarely find in the rest of healthcare:

Freedom.
Integrity.
Love.

Love not as sentimentality, but as a guiding principle.
Love in how we show up.
Love in the pauses, the eye contact, the choice to stay five minutes longer.
Love as leadership—especially the kind that doesn’t need to dominate, shout, or impress.

So much of medicine right now feels like a betrayal of our deepest values.
We're told to be more resilient, more productive, more adaptable.
But what if we were allowed to just be more human?

I don’t think we need to yell to be powerful.
I don’t think we need to burn out to prove we care.
I think we need to return to the quiet leadership of love.
To the kind of care that grounds us rather than strips us.

Hospice reminds me that love still lives here.
Even in a broken system. Even under pressure.
And it’s enough to keep going.

For now.

If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear about the places you’ve found freedom in care—no matter how small. Leave a comment or send me a note. Let’s start collecting stories that remind us why we’re still here.

With love and quiet fire,
Emma Jones

*Names have been changed to protect patient and family privacy