“Care is not what we do after the work is done — it is the work itself.”

The history of medical care is deeply rooted in the ancient notion of hospitality. From early civilizations to modern times, the principles of providing shelter, comfort, and aid have shaped the development of healthcare. This tradition of care, grounded in the ethical and moral duty to assist those in need, finds resonance in the existential philosophies of thinkers like Martin Heidegger, Rollo May, and Emmanuel Levinas. These philosophers highlight the intrinsic human capacity for sorge (care), and the ethical demand placed upon us in the presence of others.

Let’s see what they might say about care today — in a world of efficient healthcare systems, technological advances, increasing anxiety, and a growing hunger for human presence.

Philosophy of Care

For Heidegger, sorge — care — is not just a feeling or action; it is the very structure of human existence. We are not neutral observers of the world, but being-in-the-world, always already involved, responsible, and concerned. We don’t choose to care — we are born into care. Heidegger also introduces the concept of existential guilt (schuldig sein). This is not religious guilt or moral failure. It’s a recognition that simply by existing, we are already responsible — for our own lives and for how we are with others. We are indebted, not because we did something wrong, but because we are human. This reframing is powerful. Unlike the biblical concept of being born into sin, Heidegger’s guilt is not condemnation, but a call to responsibility. In caregiving, this means showing up, being present, and owning the weight of being-with others.
Psychologist Rollo May extended this existential insight into the world of therapy. In The Meaning of Anxiety, May describes anxiety not as pathology but as a normal — even healthy — response to the realities of freedom, choice, and responsibility. It tells us that we care, that something matters.

Healing, then, is not about eliminating anxiety but learning to engage with it meaningfully. According to May, when we take responsibility — when we choose to care — we are no longer overwhelmed by anxiety but transformed by it.

The Tradition of Hospitality in Medical Care

The tradition of hospitality — the act of welcoming, sheltering, and protecting others — runs deep through medical history. Ancient temples to healing gods served as places of rest and refuge. Monastic hospitals in medieval Europe combined charity, spiritual duty, and medical care in service of the vulnerable.

This idea lives on today in the language of medicine: we still “admit” patients and call them “guests” in many cultures. But how often is the spirit of hospitality practiced — the attentiveness, the presence, the human recognition?

Hospitality is not just a tradition. It is a living expression of care, a refusal to reduce a person to their illness, or to see healing as purely technical.

When Care is Missing

This distinction between technical care and human presence became painfully clear in my own birth experience. My doctor — a kind and competent person — was not available during my delivery. Instead, a team of junior colleagues handled it. They were professional, efficient, and skilled.But they were also cold. Mechanical. The experience, though successful in outcome, felt hollow.

At my postnatal check-up, my doctor assumed all had gone well. I told him, “They got the job done — but where was the care?” I asked. I reminded him: this is not just medical work. It is people work.

To be present at the birth of a human being is not just a clinical event — it is a moment bound to one of the most primal conditions of existence: the giving of life.

Spiritually, witnessing birth is standing on sacred ground — where mystery, vulnerability, and creation meet. Philosophically, it is a moment of radical Being — when a new Dasein enters the world, and we are reminded of our own thrownness and shared responsibility.

Even scientifically and anthropologically, we know that birth is one of the oldest, most universal rites of passage — a deeply social act that has always required not just skill, but support, presence, and protection from the community.

But birth is not the only moment that asks this of us.
Any time we are ill, aging, injured, afraid, or uncertain — we are vulnerable.
And when we are vulnerable, we don’t just need treatment — we need presence, reassurance, care.

In most cases, we turn to medical professionals precisely when our usual sense of control breaks down. These are moments that call not only for competence, but for compassion. Whether it’s a new life beginning or a life nearing its end, the need is the same: to be met, not just managed.

Ethics of Presence

Philosopher Emmanuel Levinas pushes care beyond even Heidegger’s existential responsibility. For Levinas, ethics begins not in thought, but in the face of the Other. When we see someone — truly see them — we are called. The vulnerability in their face is a moral demand: Do not look away.

We are responsible not because we choose to be, but because the Other’s need awakens us. This isn’t sentimental — it’s radical. Levinas says: “You are responsible for the Other without waiting for reciprocity.” This affirms what many of us feel but cannot name: that true care is not transactional. It is a gift of presence. And giving our time — especially in moments of another’s vulnerability — is one of the most human acts we can offer.

In giving time, we do not lose.
We return to ourselves.
We re-enter a world of shared meaning —
where healing begins not in control, but in presence.

From Anxiety to Action

From Anxiety to Action

We live in what some call the “Anxious Generation.” A time of hyper-connectivity, overstimulation, and constant comparison. It’s no wonder people feel disoriented, paralysed, and uncertain.
But existential thinkers offer a different message: anxiety is not something to fear. It is a signal — a reminder that something matters, that we are responsible.
Next time you feel existential guilt, dread, or paralysis — don’t push it away. Ask it what it’s pointing you toward.
Often, the answer is not some abstract solution, but a simple act of care — to someone else, or perhaps, to yourself.
Sometimes that care looks like volunteering. Other times, it’s rest or reflection. Either way, it’s how we step back into presence.
Many cultures hold the quiet belief that repeated misfortune is a sign: it’s time to give. Whether symbolic or spiritual, there’s deep truth there.
Volunteering time is one of the greatest acts of care. It cannot be bought. It affirms another person’s existence. It says, “You matter.”

To care — truly care — is to be present. To be responsible. To hear the call of the Other. Whether as a medical professional, therapist, parent, neighbor, or stranger, care is not something we do after the work is done. It is the work.
Heidegger called it sorge. Levinas saw it in the face. Rollo May found it in anxiety. And we know it — in our bodies, in our memories — when it’s there, and when it’s painfully missing.

So let us remember:
“Care is not what we do after the work is done — it is the work itself.”