Last week I had a fasting blood test. I walked to the new clinic near me. The one far enough to get some decent steps in, but close enough to not be a trek. I’d drunk plenty of water, but I was still really hungry. I had a banana in my bag to eat straight after. My plan to arrive before opening time and be first in the queue worked.
I’ve had cancer. I’ve been clear for 15 years now and well. But I hate needles. They remind me of chemo. I have to do breathing exercises, try to relax, wiggle my toes.
The nurse was lovely. While she was inputting my details into the computer she said: “while I’m doing this for the man, just relax and imagine being on holidays”. That made me smile.
Even better? It didn’t hurt like it sometimes has. I didn’t almost pass out. My veins didn’t collapse, like the last time.
Still, blood tests aren’t my favourite thing.
But here’s what made it joyful.
When it was done, she put the band-aid on as usual. Then she picked up a black sharpie and drew two dots. Eyes? I wondered what she was doing. She said, “I always do this”. Then she drew a smile. Then a tongue. And a nose.
She told me it was especially for me, because I was special. I think it was a cow. She said she’d worked at the children’s hospital for years.
I was moved. Yes, I was relieved it was over, but more than that … I felt cared for. When I thanked her, clearly moved, she gave me a hug. She even said:
It’s about care.
She then told me it was her last three weeks in the job. She could have been mentally checked out, going through the motions. Instead, she was completely present with me.
And then I found myself showing it to everyone I spoke to that day. It brought a smile to their faces too.
In environments where everything feels procedural, clinical, sometimes stressful, a tiny, genuine act of connection can transform the whole experience. It takes seconds. It costs nothing. It lingers. And it can ripple out, long after the moment.
The lesson for leaders: Find your version of the smiley cow. The unexpected moment of genuine care in the middle of routine interactions. The two-minute check-in that goes beyond agenda items. The handwritten thank you note. The small acknowledgment that says you matter as a person, not just a function. These moments aren’t measured, but they create the conditions for everything measurable to improve, like engagement, retention and performance.
Not as a gimmick, but because you mean it. Like that nurse in her final weeks, still fully present, still drawing cows. Small moments of genuine care can leave a mark long after the meeting ends, the project finishes, or the job is done. Sometimes they travel further than you’ll ever know.
