There is no word for “gay” in Urdu.
As a child, I thought that this absence meant people like me did not exist, that queerness was something distant — something that belonged to another culture, another language. As I grew older, I more clearly grasped my community’s stance on the matter. My mother would remind me that my ties with the family would be severed if I did not marry a Muslim woman; my father told me he felt physically sick when gay marriage was legalized in the United States. In the rare instances when the topic of sexuality arose in prayer groups, I quietly gazed at the floor as my closest friends explained why they could never love a gay person.
It took me years to unlearn that silence — to find the words, to find others I could open up to, and to finally speak my truth aloud. In doing so, I came to understand trust not just as something given, but as something built, often across divides of experience, values, and generations.
As a medical student, I have learned to see trust in this way — not only as a bridge between two individuals but as the essential foundation of effective health care.
For the last two years, I have worked at the Seva Free Clinic, which provides healthcare to a predominantly South Asian patient population in Chicago’s Rogers Park neighborhood. The people we serve remind me of my parents, my uncles, and my cousins — people from cultures where respect and tradition are paramount, but where openness about personal struggles is less common. When I meet with patients, they often seem comforted to see someone who looks like them and speaks their language. But as a medical trainee, I have learned that trust must be earned through a more fundamental connection: through listening, empathy, and humility.
One patient had a particularly profound impact on me. “Salman” was a man in his late thirties who came to the clinic alone. In the exam room, he spoke to me in short sentences and with a guarded demeanor. His chief complaint was lower back pain, but his hesitations in answering my questions hinted at something more. It was only after I gave him space to speak and gently expressed a genuine interest in hearing his experience that we succeeded in forging a deeper connection.
After a long pause, he admitted that he had been taking Percocet since a spinal surgery that had taken place years prior. The prescription was no longer active, but his dependence on the medication persisted. He had tried to quit, but had failed. As our conversation progressed, he cautiously added: “You are the only person I have told.”
The weight of those words was not lost on me. I knew what it meant to hold a secret so tightly that it threatened to hollow you out. For me, coming out as gay was an act of trust that I had doled out carefully — first to friends, then to mentors, always bracing for the possibility that my faith in them might be misplaced. Yet, I also knew the profound relief that follows when vulnerability is met with understanding. In medicine, trust is built in small, deliberate actions. It is in the way we ask questions, the way we respond to difficult truths, and the way we show patients that their honesty will not be received with judgment but with care.
Building a connection with Salman did not cure his addiction, but it allowed him to share his burden and take the first step toward recovery. His trust in me also enabled us to place a referral for specialists who could begin to manage his care.
That moment in the clinic underscores a broader truth: as the landscape of health care continues to evolve, so too does the nature of medical professionalism. Today, the practice of medicine extends beyond technical expertise or a hierarchical doctor-patient relationship; instead, it thrives on honesty, patient-centered care, and collaboration.
For many patients I have met as a medical student, health care is not simply about receiving treatment; it is also about feeling heard, respected, and understood. This shift is especially vital in communities where cultural differences shape health beliefs and generational divides influence faith in providers. I strive to be a physician who embodies this vision of professionalism — one who builds trust through humility, listening, and respect. By combining empathy with expertise, I hope to provide care that honors both the vulnerabilities and values of those I serve.
Adil Hassan is a pseudonym used at the request of the author. The author is a third-year medical student.