Because Google Doesn’t Hold Your Hand
When a friend asks me to explain something medical—a diagnosis, a lab result, or an article they stumbled across online—I don’t jump straight into the answer. I pause. Not because I’m unsure, but because I want to get it right. I’ve learned that explaining medicine isn’t about unloading everything I know, it’s about guiding someone through a landscape that feels foreign and overwhelming. There’s a difference between understanding something and helping someone else understand it, and that gap is where I spend a lot of my time, both in conversations and in writing.
I think of it as translation. Medicine has its own language, a precise and specialized vocabulary that doctors and researchers spend years learning to speak fluently. But most people don’t speak that language, and why should they? It’s not their job. Still, when it’s your own health or the health of someone you love, that language suddenly matters more than anything else. A single unfamiliar word on a test result can feel like a life sentence. Numbers and acronyms become cliffs instead of stepping stones. When a friend hands me a printout or a screenshot and says, “What does this mean?” they’re not just asking for information—they’re asking for reassurance, for a way to feel steady again.
My instinct is always to slow down. I start by asking what’s confusing or worrying them, because I’ve learned that it’s rarely about every word on the page. Usually, there’s one number, one phrase, one sentence that’s haunting them. Maybe it’s a lab flagged as “abnormal.” Maybe it’s a phrase like “possible mass” that makes their heart sink. Once I know what’s really worrying them, I can start peeling back the layers. That’s always my approach: figure out where the fear is sitting first, then build clarity around it.
When I explain something, I try to start simple, even if I know all the technical details. I think about how I’d describe it to someone over coffee. If I’m talking about blood pressure, I’ll say, “Your heart is like a pump, and your blood moves through your body in tubes. Blood pressure is just a way of measuring how hard your blood is pushing against those tubes.” No jargon, no assumptions about prior knowledge. Once that feels clear, I can start layering in nuance: why high blood pressure matters, what numbers are considered healthy, what lifestyle changes or treatments are recommended. I build understanding like a staircase, step by step, making sure each level feels steady before climbing higher.
Metaphors help me a lot here. I think in images when I’m trying to understand something new, so I use images to teach. I’ll compare arteries to highways, white blood cells to security guards, insulin to a key that unlocks your body’s ability to use sugar. These pictures aren’t perfect, but they give people something to hold onto. It’s easier to imagine “highways getting narrowed” than to memorize a detailed description of atherosclerosis. It’s easier to picture a “broken key” than to remember all the biochemical pathways involved in diabetes.
I’ve also learned to be intentional about the words I choose. Medical language can be alienating, and sometimes even frightening, so I swap out technical terms for everyday ones whenever I can. I might say “high blood pressure” before “hypertension,” or “when cancer spreads” before “metastasis.” If I use a technical term, I make sure to define it clearly, not because I think people can’t understand, but because I want to invite them into the conversation rather than make them feel shut out of it. Clarity isn’t about dumbing things down; it’s about respect.
Context matters too. Numbers and results on their own don’t mean much without it. If a friend shows me a cholesterol reading of 210, I don’t just say whether it’s “high” or “normal.” I explain what’s considered healthy, why that matters, and how much wiggle room there is. I remind them that one number is just one piece of a bigger picture, that doctors look at trends, symptoms, and family history—not just a single test result in isolation. Context helps turn raw data into something human, something less scary.
There’s also the emotional layer. Medical conversations are rarely just about facts. Behind every question is a flicker of fear: Am I okay? Is this serious? What happens next? I try to acknowledge that fear out loud. “I understand why this feels overwhelming,” I’ll say, or, “That’s a lot to take in.” Naming the emotion creates space for it, and that space makes learning possible. You can’t absorb information when you’re panicking, so my first job is always to help someone feel calm enough to listen.
Over time, this way of explaining things to friends has deeply shaped how I write about medicine. When I write an article, I imagine the reader as a friend sitting across the table from me, someone who’s tired, worried, and searching for answers. I write with that same instinct to slow down, to start with what they know, to build trust. I choose structure carefully, breaking big topics into digestible steps, just like I would in a real conversation. I use subheadings and bullet points not because they’re trendy, but because they mimic the pauses I’d take in person, the moments where I’d look someone in the eye and say, “Does that make sense so far?”
Writing for patients and caregivers has taught me that empathy isn’t optional; it’s the foundation. You can have the most accurate medical content in the world, but if it feels cold or condescending, it won’t land. People don’t just want facts—they want to feel understood. I think about that every time I choose a phrase or a metaphor. I don’t want my writing to feel like a wall of information; I want it to feel like a door someone can walk through.
I’ve noticed that explaining medicine well creates ripples. A friend who feels confident about their diagnosis can explain it to their partner, who explains it to their children, who explain it to their friends. Clarity spreads. It’s the same with writing. An article that helps one person understand their condition might also help them talk to their doctor more confidently, advocate for themselves, or share accurate information in their community. It’s a reminder that this work is bigger than me.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I was drawn to medical writing in the first place. Because in both writing and conversation, I’m always trying to do the same thing: take something that feels overwhelming and turn it into something someone can hold. Explaining medicine isn’t just about accuracy; it’s about kindness. It’s about saying, “I see you. I know this is scary. Let’s figure it out together.” That’s what I try to capture in my words—whether I’m sitting beside a friend, scrolling through their test results, or drafting a 2,000-word article on heart disease.
I’ve learned that good medical writing doesn’t sound like a textbook. It sounds like a conversation. It sounds like the friend you text late at night when you’re worried, the one who replies, “Let’s take a look at it together.” Writing this way takes effort. It means reading research papers and then stepping back, asking myself how I’d explain this to someone who doesn’t have a background in science but desperately needs to understand. It means stripping away jargon without stripping away accuracy. It means holding the emotional weight of what I’m writing about.
This approach isn’t glamorous, but it feels deeply human. Every time I explain something clearly to someone—a friend, a stranger, a reader I’ll never meet—I feel like I’ve done something that matters. Because medicine doesn’t have to feel like a locked room. With the right words, it can feel like someone turning on a light, saying, “Here, let me walk you through it.”
That’s what I aim for in every piece I write: clarity with compassion. The kind of writing that doesn’t just inform, but steadies. The kind of writing that reminds people that they’re not alone. Because at the end of the day, explaining a medical topic—whether face-to-face or on a page—isn’t just about knowledge. It’s about care. And care, when done well, is its own kind of medicine.