As a medical interpreter, I often serve as a silent bridge between patients, their families, and healthcare professionals. My job is to accurately convey words and meanings, but inevitably, I also absorb the emotional climate in the room. And recently, I’ve started to notice something that lingers with me long after my shift ends: the way people speak to the ones they love the most.
It struck me during a routine interpretation session. The patient was recovering from a minor surgery. The husband, with a quiet gesture of care, brought his wife a cup of water. She looked at him and, instead of a simple “thank you” or “just leave it on the table,” responded sharply:
“Why are you giving it to me now? What do you want me to do with it?”
Her tone wasn’t cruel. It was tired, maybe frustrated, maybe habitual. But it made me pause. It wasn’t the only time I had witnessed such exchanges. In fact, they’re so frequent now that they’ve become part of the background noise of the job. Dismissive responses, impatience, abrupt words thrown at spouses, parents, siblings. These weren’t strangers on the street. These were the people they loved most.
And that’s what troubles me.
I’ve started to wonder: Why do we often save our kindness and courtesy for strangers but give our worst tones to the people we live with and love? Is it because we’re too familiar, too comfortable, too exhausted to filter our moods? Is it because we know they’ll forgive us? Or worse, have we stopped noticing altogether?
I’ve seen family members speak with immense grace to the nurses and doctors. They say “please” and “thank you,” even when they’re scared or frustrated. But minutes later, they snap at their family or sigh at their partner for asking a question. It’s as if politeness is reserved for outsiders while our inner circle gets the emotional leftovers.
Is love still there? I believe it is. But is it hidden under years of assumption, fatigue, and unspoken expectations? Possibly.
I can’t help but turn that mirror back on myself. Do I do this too? Am I courteous and patient with my colleagues or strangers but dismissive with my family or friends when I’m tired or stressed? Have I let familiarity override gentleness? It’s a difficult question. But one I must ask.
Because one day, one of us won’t be here anymore.
I’ve interpreted for families saying goodbye. Final words between siblings who hadn’t spoken kindly in years, between couples who assumed they had more time. In those moments, regret hangs heavier than grief. Not just regret over what wasn’t said, but over how things were said every day. The rushed tones, the sharp replies, the absence of tenderness in ordinary moments.
I’m not suggesting we all speak like diplomats in our homes. Life is messy. But perhaps we can relearn softness, even in our busiest, most vulnerable moments. Maybe we can start by remembering that our words, however small, carry weight. A simple “thank you” instead of a grunt. A pause before reacting. A gentler tone, even when we’re tired.
So next time someone passes you a glass of water, even if you don’t need it, maybe say:
“Thanks. Just leave it on the table. I’ll have it in a bit.”
It takes nothing away from you. But it might leave a little kindness in the room. And someday, when one of us is no longer around, that kindness will matter more than we can imagine.
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