Subtitle: Why true cardiology starts not with technology, but with trust.
When people ask me what it means to be a cardiologist, they usually expect an answer about procedures. And yes, I’ve placed stents, read stress tests, interpreted complex imaging, and managed arrhythmias. Those are all part of the work. But over the years, I’ve learned that the most important part of my job isn’t technical—it’s personal.
Being a good cardiologist doesn’t start with the latest machine or algorithm. It starts with listening. Because the heart—both in the biological and emotional sense—doesn’t speak in code. It speaks in stories. And if we don’t take time to hear those stories, we risk treating numbers, not people.
That’s the foundation of how I practice medicine today, especially in my current work in Tennessee. Slowing down. Asking questions. Reconsidering what’s “routine.” And above all, remembering that the human heart is more than a plumbing problem to be fixed—it’s a life to be understood.
Reframing What It Means to Help
In modern cardiology, the tools are impressive. We have stents, pacemakers, catheters, real-time data, and a growing arsenal of life-saving interventions. But just because we can do something doesn’t mean we should. One of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned is that helping someone doesn’t always mean intervening—it sometimes means pausing.
A big part of my philosophy revolves around the idea that not every blockage needs a stent. In fact, in many cases of stable coronary artery disease, medications and lifestyle changes are just as effective—and sometimes safer. Multiple high-quality studies have shown that procedures often do not prevent future heart attacks in stable patients.
When I talk about “thinking before we stent,” I’m not discouraging the use of stents. I’m asking us to bring back critical thinking. Because medicine isn’t just about knowing how to treat a problem—it’s about knowing when to treat, why, and what happens next.
Working With Patients, Not On Them
One of the most concerning trends I’ve seen is how quickly patients are shuffled through the healthcare system without being invited into their own decision-making. Too often, they’re told what they “need,” rather than asked what they understand or want.
I believe in collaborative care. I believe the patient should sit at the table, not in the passenger seat.
When someone comes into my office, I don’t just review their test results. I talk to them. I ask about their symptoms, their fears, their stress, their sleep, their support system. I want to know what they eat, how they move, whether they feel safe and heard in the healthcare environment. Only then do we talk about treatment.
Because the body doesn’t exist in a vacuum. And no heart heals in isolation.
Prevention as the First Line of Defense
We’ve built a healthcare system that often rewards reacting to disease rather than preventing it. But I’ve seen firsthand how powerful prevention can be—how small, steady changes in lifestyle, nutrition, exercise, and medication adherence can dramatically reduce a person’s risk of a major cardiac event.
In Tennessee, where I now practice, the rates of heart disease are especially high. That’s not just a medical issue—it’s a social one. Economic hardship, food insecurity, stress, and limited access to preventive care all play a role. That’s why I’m so passionate about addressing the full picture.
Prevention isn’t a luxury. It’s a right. And it’s one of the most cost-effective, life-saving investments we can make as a society.
Trust is the Best Medicine
What surprises people most is that many of my most successful outcomes didn’t involve a procedure. They involved a conversation. They involved time, trust, and clarity.
I remember a patient who came in after being told he needed a stent immediately. He wasn’t having any symptoms. His stress test showed some irregularities, but nothing urgent. When we spoke, he shared that he felt pressured, confused, and anxious.
We talked through the evidence. We reviewed the risks and the alternatives. He chose to hold off on the procedure and focus on a prevention-first plan. Two years later, he’s doing well—with no events, no hospitalizations, and a renewed sense of control over his health.
That’s not just a clinical win. That’s a human one.
The Future I Hope to See
Looking ahead, I hope we continue to evolve as a field—not just technologically, but philosophically. I want to see cardiology centered around evidence, ethics, and empathy.
That means:
- Making space for patients to ask questions
- Reimbursing prevention and education as much as procedures
- Training young physicians to think critically, not just act quickly
- Encouraging second opinions as a sign of strength, not suspicion
- And remembering that a “routine” stent for us may feel life-altering for the patient
I also hope more clinicians feel empowered to say, “Let’s wait.” Because sometimes, that’s the most courageous, compassionate thing we can do.
Final Thoughts
When I listen to a patient’s heart through my stethoscope, I’m not just checking for murmurs or rhythms. I’m listening for the story behind the heartbeat. The fear behind the symptoms. The hope behind the questions.
And in those moments, I’m reminded why I became a doctor in the first place.
Not to do more. Not to move fast. But to care better.
Let’s keep asking hard questions. Let’s keep earning our patients’ trust. And let’s remember that the real art of medicine isn’t found in what we do—but in how and why we do it.