Nothing, it turns out, is as I thought it would be. Not the phone call I was dreading, nor the haircut I was looking forward to. Less even the bigger things—aging, marriage. I always expect things to become clearer, the tangles to unravel over time until one day, finally, everything will make sense.

In “Invisible” (Field Notes, Intima, Fall 2024), Joanne Wilkinson describes a similar longing to understand the suffering and mercies she has witnessed during her work as a physician. Early in her career, Wilkinson, who is an associate professor of family medicine at Brown University, thought medical practice would give her answers. Instead, she has been left with more questions.

In my essay, “Where’s my Hug?” (Field Notes, Intima, Spring/Summer 2025), I confront a similar paradox—seeking to understand the role of touch in caring for patients, especially patients like the one in “Invisible,” for whom medical treatment has little appreciable impact. In such cases, what can we offer beyond our humanity? And, in those situations when we are so limited, what boundaries between ourselves and our patients can we reasonably set?

The longer I practice, the more uncertainty seems to characterize my experience in the same way it does Wilkinson in “Invisible.” As I move through my clinic days now, the challenge is not so much in knowing what to do; it is in managing the moments of not knowing. It turns out that caring for patients—for anyone, really—requires comfort with uncertainty. And I wonder if that comfort is, itself, a form of grace.