“I hear you’re having a bad day.”
Eleisha Hewes says it softly as she steps into the room of a patient who has just received a cancer diagnosis. “Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice—measured, gentle—is an antidote to the constant motion and noise of a trauma one hospital. She listens more than she speaks.
“This isn’t something you’re supposed to know how to handle,” she tells him. “There isn’t a right or wrong way to react.”
She takes his hand. It’s a small gesture, one she learned the power of during her time in hospice care. Eleisha knows the patient isn’t looking for answers. He’s looking to be seen—to have his fear acknowledged.
These are the fragile, emotionally charged moments Eleisha has spent her career navigating. Over the years, she's worked in the Emergency Department, the U's mobile crisis unit, hospice care, and now the Acute Medicine Pulmonary Unit. While clinicians and nurses move deftly to fix and care for the human body, the emotional caretakers of the hospital slip into these intense, delicate spaces.
“We have some of the best nurses and doctors out there,” Eleisha says. “But most weren’t trained in the emotional impact of being a patient in a hospital—or what to do when those emotions start to come out.” She reassures staff that it's okay for a patient to cry: “It is not about fixing.”
In a hospital, vulnerability is complex and constant. Patients are often sick, weak, and frightened while waiting for results or a procedure. They lie under thin gowns in unfamiliar rooms while strangers touch them, insert lines, run tests, and deliver news that can change their lives in seconds.
“Where there is physical pain, there is emotional pain too,” says Eleisha, one of 30–40 social workers throughout the hospital. “My job is to create that space for patients to find their own voice, to speak, to be heard, to not feel powerless. We choose compassion and empathy in spaces where others might feel uncomfortable, reactive, or shut down.”
I Was Once the Patient
Eleisha understands what it feels like to be a patient. Over eight years, she battled a severe infection that required more than 20 surgeries and extended inpatient stays. The experience left a butterfly-shaped scar across her back—and a profound understanding of patient vulnerability.
“I know that feeling of being in a hospital bed, being terrified, and not knowing who your allies are,” she says. “I felt so alone, and there were times I felt blamed, like I was somehow doing this to myself.”
But in the face of that emotional turmoil, there’s a choice. “When you feel like your life or situation is complete chaos,” she says, “you can either choose to give in to it or use logic, empathy, and compassion to find your way through it.”
It was the care of those around her at the hospital that helped her choose the latter and ultimately led her to a career in medical social work.
Our Work Is Often Heavy, But We Show Up
In intense health care situations, patients aren’t the only ones who might need support. Eleisha recalls a day in the ED when a mother, who had just lost her 18-year-old son, was screaming in anguish. Eleisha stood by the mother’s side, ready to hold her or to catch her if she passed out. The staff was clearly distressed, too.
“Our work is often heavy,” Eleisha says. “But we show up.”
“Working with Eleisha has shown me that social workers are there as much for us as they are for the patients,” says Kristen Hassan, clinical coordinator on the pulmonary unit. “She finds a triangular solution that involves all of us—patient, family, and the staff. I truly can’t imagine doing my job without her.”
Kristen recently relied on Eleisha to help support a patient who had been admitted multiple times in just a few months. The patient, who has cerebral palsy and autism, was so frightened by treatment that even placing an oxygen mask became a struggle.
Eleisha helped by slowing everything down. She offered small choices—walk or rest, snack now or later—and introduced calming distractions, like printed pages of the patient’s favorite characters to color. She also worked with the guardians to develop a long-term plan aimed at preventing future hospitalizations.
“She’s an advocate who looks at the whole picture and then balances what is best for the patient while also keeping staff safe,” Kristen says.
The pulmonary unit also cares for internal medicine patients, including some who are unhoused or struggle with addiction. On any given day, Eleisha encounters a whole spectrum of some of life’s hardest circumstances and emotions: grief, fear, confusion, anger, manipulation, plus family dynamics.
“She's a bridge for the mental health part of human behavior that nurses don’t have the capacity, time, or training to handle,” Kristen adds. “Social workers are a huge asset in our inpatient world.”
You Need to Feel It, But You Need Boundaries, Too
Tucked behind the nurse’s station is what Eleisha calls her “nook,” decorated with photos of the hospital’s therapy dogs and a collage of magnets, one a butterfly and another that says “Look for the Good.” A jar of rainbow candy canes and chocolates sits near a stack of SafeUT and LGBTQ Suicide Prevention cards. Social workers are spread out, mostly working autonomously, so it's the nearby nurses and providers who provide daily camaraderie.
Each morning, Eleisha skims the admits, looking for those who will need trauma assessments. “I really like to have a good idea of who they are and who I’m working with,” she says. While asking a series of questions, she’s looking for past traumas, PTSD, and anxiety levels. “I’m looking for anything that can inform us so we are not re-traumatizing patients by the way we care for them.”
When there is distress, Eleisha models calm to help push back on the feelings of chaos or loss of control that the patient feels. She slows her breathing. Her voice softens. Gradually, the patient follows. “I don’t carry judgment,” she says. “People can feel that.”
Sometimes, this modeling is for a family member. “I have to be there for the family too, because the patient and family are very dependent on one another,” says Eleisha. “It's complicated because love is involved.”
She recalls a man in his early 20s who was dying of liver failure; his grandmother demanded that they take her liver to save her grandson’s life: “He's young, I am not,” she pleaded.
The rawness of these moments affects social workers, too. Like many in health care, Eleisha relies on compartmentalization to get through the day. “In the moment, it's not about me and how I’m feeling,” Eleisha says. “My focus is on the individual; later, I go, ‘What do I do with this?’”
It's a delicate balance to remain open and connected to others’ pain without being swallowed by it. You need to feel it, but you need boundaries too.
“All good social workers feel the heaviness in their heart, but we also remember the sorrow belongs to the patient and it's part of their story,” Eleisha explains. “As long as I keep that boundary, I can remain in that moment with them instead of being the one that’s falling apart.”
What helps her release it at the end of the day? Music. Her Spotify library holds more than 4,000 songs: rap, metal, folk, punk, pop—whatever matches the day she just lived. Music is Eleisha’s happy place. It's where she can release, reflect, and let go.
She pulls up one of her go-to tunes—“Scars That Sing” by ChaptrTwo—hits play and starts to sing:
“These ain’t wounds anymore,
just scars that sing—
a melody of everything
that broke me down
and made me king.”
–By Peta Owens-Liston; Photos by Kim Raff
