It Isn’t About Having Status.

It’s What You Do With It.

Part Two of Three Parts of the Same Story

In my previous post, Do You See Me or My Status?,
I explored how easily we judge people by their careers, job titles, relationships and achievements.

But there’s another side to that conversation.

What happens when we’re the ones who have status?

What do we do with whatever position, knowledge, influence or power we have?

Do we use it to protect our place?

Or do we use it to make room for others?

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The Healthcare Contradiction

I once came across the idea that competition sits at the bottom while collaboration sits at the top.

Maybe its not that simple, but this really resonated with me.

I’ve experienced moments when professional expectations, competition and the need to maintain our positions seemed to become more important than compassion.

And the greatest irony is that I experienced some of this in healthcare.

A profession built around caring for vulnerable people.

Compassion. Dignity. Advocacy.
Seeing the person rather than simply the condition.

Then I became the vulnerable person.

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I was visibly, physically unwell.

I was trying desperately to continue working while my health deteriorated.

I was surrounded by healthcare professionals – doctors, nurses and pharmacists.
People whose working lives revolved around recognising illness, understanding vulnerability and caring for others.

Some of these people knew me.
Yet at times I felt completely invisible.

I don’t think everyone necessarily understood what was happening to me.
And perhaps some didn’t know what to say.

But I often wondered whether anyone had stopped to ask what trying to carry on was costing me.

“Are you okay?”
“Is there anything we can do to help?”

Such simple questions yet profound impact.

We could recognise vulnerability in our patients, advocate for their needs and understand the importance of compassion.

But sometimes we struggled to extend that same curiosity and kindness to the people working alongside us.

I wasn’t expecting anyone to have the answers or fix what was happening to me.

Sometimes I just wanted to feel that somebody had noticed and seen me.

The Difference Between Being Treated and Being Heard

Perhaps one of the clearest examples of how differently professional status and compassion can sit together came through my experiences with dermatology.

At one of the most vulnerable points in my illness, I was encouraged to see a particular dermatologist.

She was described to me as highly established and respected in her field. Given her experience and professional standing, I was reassured that she would be someone who could understand my condition and approach it with empathy.

So naturally, I went with hope.

I arrived in a wheelchair, physically unwell and emotionally exhausted, hiding behind my sunglasses.

I remember being abruptly asked to remove them.

It might sound like such a small thing.

But when you’re already feeling exposed and vulnerable, sometimes it’s not just what somebody says.

It’s how they say it.

I had gone there hoping to feel understood.

Instead, I left in tears.

And what struck me afterwards was that I had been encouraged to see this doctor because of her professional reputation.

Yet when I think back to that appointment, it isn’t her reputation I remember.

It’s how I felt in her presence.

My experience with my current dermatologist couldn’t be more different.

I didn’t choose her because of an impressive list of accolades or a particularly prominent professional position.

But she makes me feel safe.

She takes an interest in my life beyond my skin.

My mental health.
My relationships.
My wellbeing.

My hopes of returning to work.

She understands that my illness has affected far more than my physical appearance.

She listens.

She discusses treatment options with me and allows me to have a voice in decisions about my own care.

I don’t feel I have to prove how much I’ve suffered to be taken seriously.

I can simply be myself.

And I leave her appointments feeling heard rather than diminished.

That difference has stayed with me.

Professional recognition can tell us about someone’s experience, achievements and standing in their field.

But it doesn’t necessarily tell us how we will feel when we’re sitting opposite them at our most vulnerable.

It’s one thing to have authority.
It’s another to make someone feel safe in your presence.

Recognition Isn’t Always the Same as Embodying Our Values

People can progress, achieve things and receive recognition that tells the outside world they are successful.

And their achievements are still their achievements.

I don’t want to diminish anyone’s hard work or professional accomplishments.

But I’ve learned that being recognised for practising certain values isn’t necessarily the same as embodying them.

You can advocate for compassion and still fail to show it to the person beside you.

You can teach people about care and fail to recognise when somebody you know needs it.

You can collect titles, qualifications and professional recognition and still look straight past another human being’s pain.

And I don’t say this because I believe people are deliberately unkind.

Sometimes we’re busy or distracted, so focused on our responsibilities that we fail to notice what’s happening right in front of us.

And sometimes, perhaps, we simply don’t know what to say.

But surely that is where compassion begins.

Not with having the right answer.

But with being willing to ask the question.

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But I’ve Experienced the Opposite Too

This isn’t a story about accomplished people being bad or status somehow making somebody less compassionate.

Because I’ve experienced the complete opposite.

There are people who have used their professional role, knowledge, position or influence to help me.

Some barely know me.

They didn’t know who I was before illness.
They don’t know everything I achieved.
Some have only ever known this version of me; the person trying to find her way forward.

And yet they’ve seen enough beyond the illness to ask:

“How can I help?”

Some have helped simply as human beings.

Others have helped from within their professional roles, using their knowledge or position not as something to protect, but as something that might help somebody else move forward.

And I haven’t forgotten those people either.

Because when you’re vulnerable, even the smallest act of kindness can stay with you.

Someone taking the time to listen.
Someone believing you.
Someone making an introduction, sharing their knowledge or opening a door.

Not because there was anything to gain.

But because they could.

And because they cared.

My current dermatologist is one example of that.

Her kindness doesn’t make her any less professional.

Her willingness to listen doesn’t diminish her expertise.

If anything, it’s what allows me to trust that expertise.

And perhaps that’s something we don’t talk about enough.

The ability to make someone feel heard, respected and safe is an achievement in itself.

Even if nobody hands out an award for it.

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When Someone Steps Away, Their Contribution Doesn’t Disappear

There’s another side to this that I’ve come to understand through my career break.

Over the years, we contribute ideas, create resources, develop projects and share knowledge.
We invest our time, energy and experience into the work we do.
And much of that work continues long after we’ve stepped away.

But when illness interrupts your career, something strange can happen.

You’re no longer in the room.

You’re no longer part of the everyday conversations.

You may no longer have access to the work you helped create or the professional networks you spent years building.

Yet your contributions haven’t suddenly ceased to exist.

The work is still there.
The knowledge is still there.
The years you invested are still part of your story.

And being away from work has made me reflect on the difference between having access to something and being willing to share it.

Between recognising somebody’s contribution and allowing it to be forgotten.

Between seeing knowledge as something to protect and something that might help another person move forward.

Because compassion isn’t only about how we treat people when they’re standing in front of us.

It’s also about how we treat them when they’re no longer in the room.

In healthcare, we spend our professional lives advocating for people experiencing illness and vulnerability.

Surely that empathy should extend to colleagues whose careers have been interrupted by illness too?

Someone may be trying to rebuild their confidence.

Reconnect with their profession.

Find a way back into work.

And sometimes the smallest gesture can make an enormous difference.

Sharing a resource.

Acknowledging someone’s contribution.

Making an introduction.

Offering encouragement.

None of these things necessarily require a grand gesture or a position of great authority.

Sometimes they simply require us to remember that the person who is no longer beside us still matters.

Just because someone has stepped away from a role doesn’t mean their contribution has disappeared.

And perhaps that’s another measure of how we use whatever influence we have.

Not just whether we’re willing to help someone climb.

But whether we’re willing to reach back for someone whose journey has been interrupted.

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So What Do We Do With Our Status?

Perhaps that’s the distinction I’ve been trying to understand.

It isn’t about whether we have status.

It’s about what we do with it.

We can use our position to guard our place.

Or we can use it to make room.

We can see another person’s success as a threat.

Or we can celebrate it.

We can hold tightly to our knowledge and influence.

Or we can share them with someone who might need a helping hand.

We can collect accolades for the values we profess.

Or we can quietly embody them when nobody is watching.

I’ve experienced both.

And perhaps success isn’t only about how high we climb.

Maybe it’s also about whether we notice the people standing beside us while we’re climbing.

Whether we make room.

Whether we share.

Whether we live the values we’re so good at talking about.

And whether, when there is absolutely nothing to be gained from being kind, we are kind anyway.