Not Sick. Just Human.

What We Miss When We Rush to Treat the Pain

She walked into my office with a neat handbag and tired eyes.

A retired nurse. Sixty-seven. Slender frame, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She didn’t want to be there. Not really. But the panic attacks had become unbearable.

“They always come at night,” she said, looking away. “I wake up, heart racing. I feel like I’m going to die.”

She had no history of anxiety. No trauma to speak of. Just silence. Long evenings. A too-quiet home.

She had spent over forty years in healthcare. Holding hands, giving injections, lifting bodies, lifting spirits.

But now?

Now no one called. No one needed her. Her calendar was blank. The hallway echoing. The coffee cold before it could be shared.

I listened to her breath quicken as she described the sensations: Tight chest. Racing thoughts. Sweat pooling in her palms. Classic panic, yes. But something didn’t sit right.

Because it wasn’t just fear. It was grief.

What she missed wasn’t peace. It was purpose.

Her entire identity had been wrapped around being useful. Now, without the badge, the uniform, the pager, she felt invisible.

And that invisibility was crushing her chest – not a disease.

She had been prescribed benzodiazepines before seeing me. “Just to help me sleep,” she said.

But medicine couldn’t soothe what she couldn’t name. And what she couldn’t name was this:

The ache of not mattering anymore.

This isn’t just her story.

It’s our story. It’s the quiet epidemic among high-functioning people, especially in the Nordic world: We are performing wellness while silently unraveling.

Because when life slows down, when roles fall away, when silence creeps in – we’re left with a haunting question:

Who am I now?

As a psychiatrist, I know the power of medication. I use it. I prescribe it. It saves lives.

But I also know its limits.

And I know when we’re medicating pain that needs to be witnessed, not silenced.

Viktor Frankl wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning:

“When a person can’t find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.”

Or with pills. Or with productivity. Or with pretending we’re fine.

But not everything that hurts is a disorder.

Not every tear is a symptom. Not every sleepless night needs a pill.

Sometimes, what we really need is someone to ask:

What is the pain trying to tell you?

Her panic attacks weren’t random. They were messengers. Warning signs that something inside her was collapsing under the weight of invisibility.

She didn’t need sedation. She needed reconnection. She needed to be seen – not as a patient, but as a person still full of potential.

So I didn’t give her a new label.

I gave her space.

And together, we began to explore a different kind of medicine – one made of words, meaning, ritual, routine.

She began volunteering once a week. Started journaling. Called an old friend. Took up watercolor painting.

Each small act said: “I am still here. I still matter.”

If you’re reading this and you feel numb or restless, let me tell you:

You’re not broken. You might just be disconnected from what makes you feel alive.

And that’s not a diagnosis. It’s a wake-up call.

We live in a system that rewards fast answers. Quick fixes. Clean-cut diagnoses.

But we lose something vital when we rush to label what is deeply human.

We lose the story.

And with it – the chance to grow, heal, and find meaning.

So here’s my invitation to you:

Pause. Feel. Look beneath the surface.

What in your life is aching for attention? What in your story hasn’t been heard?

And if you work in healthcare, coaching, HR, or leadership – I ask you this:

Are you listening for symptoms? Or are you listening for meaning?

Because people don’t just need treatment. They need truth. They need kindness that dares to say:

“You’re not sick. You’re just human. And that’s more than enough.”

Let’s stop pathologizing pain. Let’s start honoring it. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll remember what real healing feels like.

With care,

Florina