The Hidden Lessons in Difficult Conversations

Parenting and surgery may seem like entirely different worlds, but both require the same essential skill: leading with empathy in the face of conflict. A recent moment with my son reminded me just how closely these roles can overlap.

As the afternoons have gotten warmer, I have combined two routines—picking up my son from after-school care and walking our 3-year-old goldendoodle, Baxter. Baxter is the world’s friendliest and most adorable dog (no debate will be entertained), beloved by my son’s classmates. As we waited in the lobby, a young girl eagerly asked to pet him. I said yes.

Then my son arrived, and shocked me. Without hesitation, he told the girl to stop touching his dog in a tone that was far from kind. This was wildly out of character for him. I said nothing at the moment, but once we were alone, we talked because while I always backed my son in public, he knew I wouldn’t tolerate that behavior.

That girl had stolen his sketchbook months ago—the one I had given him for Christmas and thought he’d lost. It had recently appeared in her bag. He’d felt the sting of betrayal and the weight of my disappointment, having wrongly assumed he’d been careless. His reaction came from unresolved hurt.

That moment mattered. Not because of a sketchbook, but because it shaped the kind of man he would become: one who reacts impulsively or learns to lead with integrity—even when it’s hard.

There’s a saying: “Never argue with a fool. Onlookers may not be able to tell the difference.” Had anyone witnessed his reaction to that girl, he would’ve looked like the bully. So often, that’s how we come across in conflict—stripped of context, and judged in seconds.

Jefferson Fisher, a trial lawyer and speaker I deeply admire, said, “The person in front of you is not the person you’re arguing with.” Each of us is a sum of past experiences—parents, teachers, trauma, joy—and what we express outwardly is just the tip of the iceberg.

I remember being a child and seeing my teacher at the mall, stunned that she existed outside the classroom. As adults, we still make this mistake. We forget that people—especially those who challenge or frustrate us—have entire inner worlds. Instead of judging, we should aim to be curious.

So I asked my son: “Did it feel good to tell her not to pet Baxter?” He shook his head. “No.” Because it wasn’t true to who he is—or who Baxter is. And to those watching, it just looked like cruelty. I told him, “You don’t have to be friends with everyone. But never give someone the excuse to lower your integrity. Their bad behavior doesn’t justify yours.”

The same holds in the hospital. Patients often walk our halls with fear in their hearts. Maybe they remember this place as where they last spoke to a loved one. Perhaps they’re worried about a medical bill they haven’t paid. And our colleagues? They may be carrying the weight of a sick child, a sleepless night, or a fight from home.

When someone resists or lashes out, it’s rarely about you. But we can only create space for growth, collaboration, and trust through curiosity, not defensiveness.

Fisher offers a powerful metaphor: we carry a full glass, filled with our history, beliefs, and biases. To introduce a new idea—or resolve a conflict—you must make room in that glass. If you don’t, it just overflows into chaos.

In a perfect world, difficult conversations happen when we’re well-fed, well-rested, and surrounded by calmness. But we’re in hospitals. We’re running on caffeine and vending machine snacks, under fluorescent lights, collecting sleep debt from residency.

So here’s my best advice—for my son, team, and myself: Lead with curiosity. Speak as if your mother is listening. And act in a way that would make both of you proud. That’s how we fill each other’s glasses—rather than spilling them.