Opinion: How meditation helped me become a better doctor overnight

Nov. 3, 2026 Kinast is an ophthalmologist at Legacy Devers Eye Institute, a clinical scientist at Legacy Research Institute, and a clinical professor at OHSU Casey Eye Institute. Last fall I attended a meditation retreat in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I had hoped for a respite from a busy ophthalmology practice in Portland, Ore. Instead, I returned to the most difficult challenges I have faced in practice. One night, we were asked to remain awake in meditation through dawn. The teachers explained that this “all-nighter” would be quite different from those in our past, such as late nights studying in college or socializing with friends. For me, however, the term “all-nighter” did not evoke memories from a library or party. Instead, I recollected the most devastating injuries I have ever witnessed as an ophthalmologist: a patient who survived an execution-style gunshot and required brain surgery and an enucleation; a serene woman waiting in her car near a street festival, struck by stray gang violence; and eyes ruptured by knives, fireworks, bungee cords, windshields, beer bottles, sticks, rocks, and fish hooks. Many of them “just minding my own business.” Each story life-changing and traumatizing. Ophthalmologists are called in — often in the middle of the night — to help these individuals. With limited hope for preserving sight, we try to reconstruct their ruptured globes. An all-nighter in this context requires moving efficiently, precise care, and endurance. We must provide the best surgical care possible to help these wounded souls while leading an equally exhausted operating-room team, everyone aware of the day’s work still ahead. I have sometimes cried for these traumas. Usually, I retreat to the privacy of a locker room or bathroom to regain my composure. If my eyes begin to tear in front of a patient, I tend to bear down — toughening the face and hardening the body — out of fear of damaging their confidence in me. There is a possible benefit from that restraint. Some patients may, indeed, not want to see their surgeon sobbing about their damaged eye moments before operating on them. Still, this hardening of the body also shuts down the heart and emotional processing of the trauma. Staying up all night in the meditation hall, I realized that I had never fully digested the trauma of these devastating injuries. I had never taken the time and space to sit with the losses — the eyes, the lives, the damage. As dawn approached, an anticipatory excitement filled the hall and most joined in a rejoiceful meditative chant. I sat in the back of the hall and grieved. Mourning into the morning led to a tremendous gratitude and respect for physicians who treat trauma, including my fellow ophthalmologists and myself. Patients may think of ophthalmologists as doctors who perform friendly examinations with “Star Trek”-like equipment and brief surgeries to help with sight, and that is true. We also perform vital work alongside emergency physicians and trauma surgeons, managing injuries so severe they can be difficult to even witness. In these worst moments, times of dire need, we come in and help. Sometimes, we stay up all night. These “all-nighters” are a service of the heart that benefit our fellow human beings, even when our lionhearts are too closed to grieve in the moment. Across medicine, physicians need support to carry the profound emotional burdens of helping patients and families through tragedy. What feels like a weight of helplessness and sorrow on our shoulders may, with enough space, also reflect our remarkable capacities for strength, steadfastness, and compassion. That night taught me how the inner work of meditation and self-inquiry can support the outer work of patient care. The stoic rigidity that held back my tears and helped me appear strong had also kept patients, and their distress, at a distance. Within that rigidity lay a fear of becoming overwhelmed by patients’ suffering and then unsettled just before operating. With a tonic of awareness, space, and time, the physical tension and fear released. In its place emerged a true strength: to be open to another’s suffering, present with their experience. Without a rigid barrier, I can better attune to my patients whether they are facing trauma, the loss of a loved one, or simply a bad day. Since the retreat, I have tried to be more present with my patients in clinic. Each time I enter an examination room and sit on my swivel chair, I ritualistically sense my feet on the ground as a reminder to be mindful. Meditation is often described as a returning to the present moment after each successive drift. The returning itself is the practice. Each patient now offers an opportunity for both clinical and meditative practice. Forget my feet and then remember them; become overwhelmed by long wait times, then ground myself; slip into autopilot, then return. Clinic itself becomes a meditation. Returning again and again helps keep the heart open. Trauma call remains my least favorite part of medicine and often the most meaningful. I see traumatic eye injuries only a few times each year; many physicians in other fields treat this type of suffering daily. Thank you to the trauma physicians and surgeons who care for unimaginable injuries, each a devastating story. May we mourn with open hearts the tragedies that find their way into our hands. Robert M. Kinast, M.D., is an ophthalmologist at Legacy Devers Eye Institute, a clinical scientist at Legacy Research Institute, and a clinical professor at OHSU Casey Eye Institute in Portland, Oregon. He invented the GentleDrop eye drop guide and the CleverDrop eye drop monitor.