Small Moments, Big Impact: Building Trust in the Briefest Patient Encounters

A patient lies still on a stretcher just outside the operating room, hands gripping the rails with quiet tension. The monitors are not beeping yet, the anesthesia has not begun, and for a few seconds, it is only anticipation and fear. Then the door opens. A physician enters – steady, unhurried, composed. Nothing dramatic is said, but a shift in the room is sensed. The patient exhales slightly.

In fast-paced clinical settings like the operating room, there’s very little time to build rapport,  yet trust must still be earned in just a few moments. Not over a few weeks or even hours, but sometimes in the span of minutes, a single exchange, or a few carefully chosen words before anesthesia induction. A brief exchange, a steady tone, or simply being present can meaningfully change how your patient experiences vulnerability.

These moments are easy to overlook in a healthcare system driven by urgency and efficiency, yet they can shape how patients remember their care and how they perceive or approach future care. They reveal a quieter truth about medicine: trust is not always built with time, but rather, presence. 

As trainees at different stages — a third-year anesthesia resident and two third-year medical students— we’ve each witnessed this truth from different points along the perioperative journey (the time before, during, and after surgery). Together, our experiences reveal how small moments can profoundly shape a patient’s experience.

Where Trust Begins
Steven Giang, DO, Third-Year Anesthesiology Resident

As an anesthesiology resident, I am often the first member of the care team a patient meets when they arrive for surgery. This may be an hour, sometimes less, before they are taken to the operating room. In that brief time, I have the responsibility of earning their trust. They have just met me, yet they must rely on me to safeguard their life and well-being during one of the most vulnerable moments they may ever experience.

My role is not solely to induce anesthesia or manage pain; it is to ensure that each patient feels safe and cared for prior to, during and after their procedure. In those first encounters, technical preparation matters, but emotional presence often matters more.

I recall one patient, an elderly Vietnamese woman scheduled for a wrist fracture repair. She didn’t speak English, and the nurses were using an interpreter to communicate with her. Despite their efforts, I could see she was anxious and unsettled.

I am also Vietnamese, so I introduced myself to her in our shared language and took the time to explain what would happen before, during, and after her surgery. I reassured her that we would take good care of her. Her expression changed almost immediately. Her shoulders relaxed, the tension in her hands eased, and she began to listen more closely. She later told me she felt as though she were speaking with her own son.

This was a circumstance in which a shared cultural background created an instant connection. However, as an anesthesiology resident, it is my responsibility to connect with every patient, regardless of differences in background or experience. I often have only minutes to earn the trust of someone who is in an intensely vulnerable state.

For healthcare providers, these encounters can feel routine. Yet from a patient’s perspective, this may be one of the most frightening and uncertain moments of their life. I consider it a privilege to help guide patients through these moments with compassion and reassurance. This responsibility motivates me every day to refine my skills, grow in my confidence, and ensure that each patient feels they can trust me to care for them as I would for my own family.

Making Space to Listen
Tony Phan, Third-Year Medical Student

During my anesthesia rotation at UT Tyler School of Medicine, I found myself often standing just outside pre-op rooms, watching how quickly physicians had to move between patients while still trying to be fully present for each one. The pace was fast, but what struck me was how intentionally unhurried the anesthesiologist seemed once they stepped into the room.

I watched how they built trust in some of the most vulnerable moments patients face, through steady eye contact, clear explanations, and sometimes just quiet space for the patient to speak. Even during brief encounters, there was a noticeable shift in tone when the physician slowed down. Patients seemed to mirror that pace as well.

One attending particularly stood out to me because he always asked patients, “What’s worrying you the most today?” even when they were crunched for time. It was a small question, but it often changed the direction of the conversation. I remember one patient who initially signaled that they were ready to get on with it quickly. But after being asked that question, they paused longer than expected. This seemed to be a pattern. Patients who were initially guarded, after this question would pause, reflect, and then begin to speak more openly. That single question did not necessarily add time, rather, it seemed to create space for open discussion.

I found myself thinking about that pause long after the rotation had ended. It was remarkable how something seemingly so simple could shift the emotional tone of the whole encounter in seconds.

These experiences have shaped how I now connect with people outside the hospital, too. Whether it is helping a patient express an unspoken concern or supporting someone navigating a complex health system, I’ve seen how people respond when they feel they’re being listened to. Not hurried, not rushed, but truly heard.

This has become one of the clearest lessons in my medical education so far: meaningful care isn’t about how long we know someone, it’s about how we show up for them in the time that we do have. I first learned that in the operating room, but it’s something I carry with me into every part of medicine I hope to practice.

Being a Steady Presence
Kole Moulton, Third-Year Medical Student

Waking up after surgery under general anesthesia can be a confusing and disconcerting experience for patients. They return to consciousness in a room full of strangers and noises, sometimes facing pain and changes to their bodies that can feel overwhelming. During my time as a medical student rotating with the anesthesia program, I witnessed this process many times. Over time, I began to see a broader lesson in these moments: how much a provider’s presence can matter when patients feel most vulnerable.

I saw this responsibility in action while working with an attending anesthesiologist. I remember a patient who was waking up from a very long and complex abdominal surgery. As they emerged from general anesthesia, they looked around the room, visibly confused, with tears in their eyes. The effects of anesthesia can contribute to temporary confusion, disorientation, and changes in mood, which may have added to the patient’s sense of vulnerability. They didn’t know where to focus their attention. One moment they were reaching for the surgical site, the next, they were prodding at the many lines and sensors attached to their body.

The anesthesiologist approached the patient and held their hand, told them he was there, and told them that they’d be okay. The patient was visibly relieved. The physician’s voice did not rise above the moment, it anchored it. He then explained that the patient had done well, was through the surgery, and outlined what to expect from their stay in the PACU. He then followed up by asking if they were in any pain and his plan to manage that pain.

This whole interaction only took a few minutes, but it made an obvious positive impact on the patient’s experience. The chaos in their expression softened as their orientation returned. Not because their environment changed, but because they no longer felt alone in navigating it. Sometimes, simply offering reassurance and explaining what comes next can make an overwhelming moment feel a little more manageable.

A Message to Fellow Aspiring Docs

Whether it’s spending five minutes with a patient or following them for five months, trust is at the heart of everything we do in medicine. Across the OR, the clinic, and the community, we’ve seen that connection, trust, and comfort doesn’t always come just with time. It comes from time and intention.

As we continue training, we’re learning to take notice of these moments rather than move past them. They may not appear significant in real time, but they often define how a patient experiences and reflects their care.

Medicine, and its future, aren’t going to be shaped by clinical skill alone. How we make patients feel during moments of uncertainty, fear, and stress matters, too.

About Tony:
Tony Phan is a third-year medical student at The University of Texas at Tyler School of Medicine and a former U.S. Air Force medic. Raised in Corpus Christi, TX, by Vietnamese immigrant parents, his journey to medicine has been shaped by a commitment to service, education, and caring for underserved communities. He is the founder of One Minute Medicine and remains active in community health efforts across East Texas. Outside of medicine, he enjoys exercising, writing, graphic design, and performing comedy.

About Kole:
Kole Moulton is a fourth-year medical student at The UT Tyler School of Medicine. Born to a Japanese mother and an American father, Kole was raised in Tyler, Texas along with his three brothers. He completed his bachelors in Biodiversity and Conservation at BYU. He is passionate about mental health and psychiatry and hopes to serve those experiencing mental illness. In his free time, Kole enjoys reading, entomology, building and painting model kits, and maintaining his saltwater fish tanks.