Doesn’t think he’s above the problem. Thinks he might be part of it.
This neurosurgeon doesn’t read critiques to feel superior. He reads them to feel responsible.
Every time he recognizes a pathology in a colleague, he pauses to ask:
“Where am I doing this too?”
He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t weaponize knowledge — he uses it to audit himself. Not once a year. But every day.
He knows that in neurosurgery, the greatest risk is not bleeding. It’s self-deception.
He’s not proud of being reflective. He’s afraid of the day he might stop.
From the quiet horror of watching good people do bad things — slowly, unknowingly, and with institutional applause. From seeing technical excellence used as camouflage. From realizing that clarity is a daily task, not a natural trait.
So he reflects. On his motives. His tone. His silences. His ambition. He checks not just what he does — but why he does it.
- He creates space where others can admit uncertainty. - He models slowness in a culture addicted to performance. - He invites critique — not as threat, but as calibration. - He teaches residents that thinking is not optional — it’s survival.
He doesn’t just practice surgery. He practices intellectual honesty under pressure.
He knows bias never sleeps. So he doesn’t either — at least not cognitively. He doesn’t assume his good intentions are enough. He double-checks his alignment, even when no one else will.
*He’s not safe because he’s perfect. He’s safe because he’s never done thinking.*