We live in a world where technology promises us more and more control. For almost every discomfort, there is a solution: an app that tracks your sleep, a gadget that analyzes your mood, or a button that filters out sounds. The more we can regulate and adjust, the happier we should be. Yet, in practice, I see the opposite.
They sat across from me, a couple in their seventies. Their hands intertwined, their gazes searching. "We don’t understand the letters. Sorry," the man said softly. They were functionally illiterate and were becoming increasingly entangled in a world moving faster than they could keep up with. Everything was digital, more self-service, less human contact. But what they truly needed was not another app or online portal. What they needed was someone who saw them. Someone who understood what was left unsaid. Someone who took the time to listen.
I thought of another couple, where love was still the language they understood each other in. His hearing was declining, she spoke more softly, but her gaze said enough. Sometimes, you don’t need to hear everything to understand each other. They taught me that connection is not about perfection but about the willingness to be there for one another. Something no technology can replace.
Or the family from Syria, sitting silently side by side. The father, deep lines in his face, his eyes carrying something that words could not explain. It wasn’t just the sound he heard; it was the past that had settled into his body. "It is always there," he said. And I knew he wasn’t just referring to his hearing.
And then there was the writer. He had spent his life telling stories, but now his own story was being taken over by the emptiness of his worsening hearing. The silence in which he sometimes got lost but also learned to listen anew. "Maybe it’s a lesson," he said. "That not everything always needs to be said to be felt."
This is what I see in my practice. People who are not looking for yet another tool or another setting to adjust. People who want to be heard - as human beings. Who want to learn not just how to cope with sound but with life itself.
Yet, we live in a time where discomfort and imperfection are seen as errors that must be fixed. As if wrinkles should be erased, loss avoided, and illness simply a lack of control. But not everything can be fixed - and it doesn’t have to be. Because true growth lies in letting go of that control.
Every new gadget that gives us the illusion that we can control everything teaches us to unlearn something else: the art of endurance. The power of resilience. The value of acceptance. And ultimately, the courage to live with what is, instead of endlessly fighting against what should be.
But if we recognize this - if we dare to accept that not everything is manageable - something much greater emerges. Then we can truly listen again. Then there is space for humanity, for meaning, for care that goes beyond just measuring and adjusting.
Because that is what truly matters, especially in healthcare. Not just the technology that helps, but the human behind that technology. Not just solving problems, but guiding people in their search for a way of living that suits them.
The more we become aware of this, the more we realize that, at our core, we don’t need to ‘fix’ anything. That we are not just learning to cope with illness or pain, but above all, learning to live with life itself.
And that is where true progress lies.
That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Not at all. Learning to deal with uncertainty, discomfort, pain, and loss, with the realization that not everything can be solved—that requires something from us. But we don’t have to do it alone. Receiving help, being heard, finding recognition in what we go through—that makes the difference.
Not yet another technological tool promising to fix everything, but a hand reaching out and a voice that says: I see you. We will find a way forward together.
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