The Placebo Effect

I’m writing this now while on shift as a special event EMT at a lacrosse tournament. There’s a chill in the autumn air, and I’m sitting under a tent with a cup of coffee warming my hands. All around me, families cheer, kids sprint across the field, and laughter rises above the whistle of the game. It’s one of those rare, still moments when you’re not rushing from one call to the next—just watching life unfold.

There’s something healing about being an observer when your own mind feels chaotic. Watching others simply be—playing, talking, laughing—reminds you that the world moves gently forward, whether or not you feel stuck.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, there was a fraudulent product deceptively marketed as a miracle cure-all: snake oil. These so-called medicines were sold with bold promises and zero scientific evidence, preying on the sick and the desperate. They offered hope—but only an illusion of healing.

Growing up in an Asian household, I was often surrounded by a different kind of “cure”—traditional herbal medicines and teas passed down through generations. They were said to strengthen the lungs, improve circulation, calm the mind. These remedies were rarely backed by research; they survived instead on stories and word-of-mouth. I drank them because my mother believed in them, and I loved her. But as I grew older and entered the medical field, that unquestioning trust began to waver. Living and working in a Western healthcare system has a way of sharpening your critical thinking. Still, a part of me feels a pang of guilt whenever I question the effectiveness of those old remedies with my mother. It’s not just about the tea—it’s about love, culture, and the complicated bridge between science and tradition.

I’ve often felt like a loner with nothing to offer. And you know what? That’s okay. Every day, I meet kind people—patients, coworkers, strangers. Sometimes it’s just a brief smile or a passing “hello,” but for a moment, the loneliness lifts. Over time, I’ve come to realize something uncomfortable but true: most people pay attention and build relationships because they want something. That’s human nature.

But there’s another side to that truth. Even when I feel like I have nothing—no wealth, no power, no influence—I can still give. My time, my effort, my presence. Whether I’m working in the emergency department or volunteering at an event, I’m reminded that helping someone, no matter how small the act, matters. And in those moments, I don’t feel like “nothing.” I feel like enough.

The exploitation of false hope is one of the cruelest things in the world, especially toward the vulnerable—people who are sick, lonely, or desperate for connection. Snake oil salesmen knew this. So do many who prey on loneliness today.

When you’re isolated, even the smallest act of kindness can feel monumental. A text, a smile, a brief conversation—these moments can carry more weight than they were ever meant to. And sometimes, in our longing, we might cling too tightly or read too much into them. We might even push people away in the process.

But maybe that’s just another part of being human: searching for meaning, even in the smallest interactions.

In medicine, the placebo effect describes a real, measurable improvement in health triggered not by an active ingredient but by belief itself. It’s proof that the mind has remarkable power over the body.

And maybe, in a way, that’s what connection is, too. Even if a smile doesn’t “cure” loneliness, it can ease the ache. Even if a cup of herbal tea doesn’t heal you, the care behind it can soothe the soul. Maybe belief—whether in a remedy, a relationship, or yourself—isn’t snake oil at all. Maybe it’s the one thing that truly works.

I used to think of “having nothing to offer” as a flaw. Now I see it differently. There’s value in simply showing up. In listening. In helping. In being kind without expecting anything in return.

Maybe the world doesn’t need more miracle cures. Maybe it needs more small gestures—tiny, sincere placebos that, in their own way, make life a little more bearable. And maybe that’s enough.

In the end, I think most of us are searching for the same thing: meaningful connection. We want to feel seen, valued, and understood. No matter how independent or self-sufficient we claim to be, life is built on relationships—on the handful of people who show up when things fall apart, who celebrate our victories, and who remind us that we are not walking this path alone. These special people are not just background characters in our story; they are the anchors that keep us steady when everything else is shifting.

Because of that, we owe it to them—and to ourselves—to approach new relationships with care and intention. It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of fresh connections and offer promises we’re not prepared to keep. Words, after all, are effortless to say but heavy to carry. They create expectations, build trust, and shape how others see us. And when we speak without thinking, we risk disappointing the very people we want to draw closer.

So before we make promises—whether it’s to be there, to help, or to stay—we should pause and ask ourselves a simple question: What can I truly offer this person? It doesn’t have to be much. It might be time, empathy, honesty, or support in small but meaningful ways. What matters is that our actions align with our words.

Building connection isn’t about how much we take from others, but how much we’re willing to give—not out of obligation, but out of genuine care. And when we lead with that intention, even the smallest gesture can become a lasting bond, one that deepens trust and turns ordinary interactions into relationships worth holding onto.

If we carry ourselves with the intention to provide value—showing up with kindness, patience, and sincerity—we create a kind of “placebo mindset” that quietly shapes the world around us. Even small, genuine efforts plant seeds of trust and meaning in others. Over time, those seeds grow into deeper connections, and the doors we once thought were closed begin to open on their own.