The patient lived alone, and “really struggles with social isolation,” Guzman said. After a serious fall and subsequent surgery, the woman was using a wheelchair. She confided that she would like to attend services at a church down the road but had no way to get there and did not want to seem “a bother.”

“We called the pastor to see if there was someone who could pick her up” on Sundays, Guzman said. And there was.

The next day, Guzman visited a woman with heart failure who required constant oxygen. She lives in “less than ideal housing,” with no kitchen and only a plug-in heater for warmth.

“We were trying to figure out if she qualifies for HUD housing or assisted living,” Guzman said, referring to the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. “We spent a lot of time talking about the options and came up with a game plan.”

Wednesday’s schedule included a 20-mile drive to Hood River to see an 81-year-old woman whose partner of nearly 40 years was contending with a serious cancer. Guzman, who speaks to her in Spanish, found her distraught at the possibility of losing him.

Guzman had arranged for the woman to begin seeing a therapist to help her through the crisis — no minor achievement. But on this visit, “I just handed her tissues and tried to give words of comfort,” she said. “Honestly, sometimes just sitting and listening” is the best response.

A community healthcare worker, the , is a “trusted member” of a local community or someone who has “an unusually close understanding” of it, enabling the worker to serve as intermediary between patients and the healthcare system.

These workers have been on the job since the 1960s, particularly in rural and low-income areas. Today, their numbers are growing. The Bureau of Labor Statistics , which the National Association of Community Health Workers says is probably an underestimate.

That partly reflects the difficulty of counting workers who go by a variety of names — community health educators, outreach specialists, promotores de salud — and operate under different state regulations, sometimes with no licensure or certification required.

What they have in common is that “they talk like the people they work with,” said Sam Cotton, who directs the curriculum for several such programs at the University of Louisville in Kentucky.

With shortages of healthcare professionals and an aging population, “there’s a lot of momentum for this,” she said.

In Oregon, for example, five rural clinics employ community health workers, who become state-certified after completing 90 hours of online training, through a program called Connected Care for Older Adults. A sixth clinic employing a community health worker operates in neighboring Washington.

Their frail patients are struggling. “They can’t drive, so they can’t get to a grocery store and shop,” said Elizabeth Eckstrom, chief of geriatrics at Oregon Health & Science University, who helped oversee the program’s start in 2022. “They’re not taking their medications, either for cognitive reasons or because they can’t get to a pharmacy.”

Few have completed an advance directive, specifying the care they want — or don’t want — if they suffer a health crisis.

Connected Care’s community health workers tackle many of those not-exactly-medical problems — from installing wheelchair ramps to helping patients apply for food and housing benefits. They are allotted 90 days to work with each patient, usually during home visits.

They help coordinate follow-up appointments. They administer cognitive and mental health screenings and watch for the use of too many medications, entering their observations into the patients’ electronic health records.

“It’s like being the eyes and ears for the doctors, to see what’s happening outside the 20 minutes they get to spend with patients,” said Guzman, whose work has ranged from ordering a bath mat to reporting suspected financial abuse.

In a  (average age: 77), a subsample found substantial decreases in emergency department visits and hospitalizations among those served by community health workers.

More extensive research, not yet published, supports that finding, Eckstrom said.

“ED visits cost thousands, and hospitalizations are tens of thousands,” she pointed out. The cost per patient for the 90-day program is $1,500. Its workers earn $25 an hour, a fairly typical wage, and receive full employee benefits.

Manali Patel, an oncologist at Stanford University, found for older patients with advanced cancer in a clinical trial at the Department of Veterans Affairs’ Palo Alto Health Care System.

“Lots of people were passing away” in the intensive care unit, she recalled. “If we’d asked, they probably would have wanted to be at home.” Oncologists, she added, are “notoriously bad at engaging in and documenting those conversations.”

But when a lay health worker made regular phone calls to help patients understand their options, discuss their preferences with their care team, and file advance directives, the results — published in JAMA Oncology in 2018 — were “very dramatic,” Patel said.

More than 90% of the participating veterans had their goals documented in their records compared with fewer than 20% of the control group. The lay worker’s patients had significantly fewer emergency room visits and hospitalizations and were more likely to enroll in hospice care.

Patel and her co-authors have gone on to document the benefits of lay health workers, the term they used, in undertaking other tasks in other settings.

In oncology clinics in Arizona and California, for instance, two bilingual lay health workers to cancer patients over age 75 to assess symptoms like pain, nausea, breathlessness, and depression.

Alerting healthcare teams to these patients’ problems substantially reduced their emergency department use and hospitalizations, and the cost savings averaged $12,000 a patient.

“This low-tech, human-administered intervention reaped huge dividends,” said an  in JAMA.

“Community health workers should be part of every healthcare team,” Eckstrom said. “They support the patient in ways the medical system just can’t, no matter how hard we try.”

One obstacle to expanding their use, however, is unstable funding.

In 2024, Medicare began covering some community health worker services, but not all. (The costs of driving 30 miles to remote homes, for example, are not reimbursed.) Medicaid coverage is piecemeal, reimbursing for some services in some states and not others.

“A lot of community health worker roles rely on short-term grants,” said Neena Schultz, a director of the National Association of Community Health Workers. “Sustainability is something we talk about every day.”

The organization and other supporters are pressing for more state and federal funding. The new federal , which is distributing $10 billion a year, will include funding for community health worker programs, but cuts to state Medicaid budgets could more than offset those gains.

The grants funding Connected Care for Older Adults continue, though. Guzman, employed by the nonprofit clinic One Community Health, keeps making her rounds.

One recent victory: A newly widowed patient in his 60s, struggling financially without his wife’s income, lost his housing and was sleeping in his truck. Through another patient, Guzman learned of an unused recreational vehicle whose owner was willing to donate it.

The widower now lives comfortably in a mobile home park.

When you’re in a patient’s home, “there’s a sense of ease,” Guzman said. “They feel safer talking about things. They don’t feel rushed. You develop a relationship, and they feel they have someone to advocate for them.”

The New Old Age is produced through a partnership with .

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Bynum, then in his second year of residency training as a family medicine physician, was wrapping up a long shift when he was called into an emergency delivery. To save the baby’s life, he used a vacuum device, which applies suction to assist with rapid delivery.

The baby emerged unharmed. But the mother suffered a severe vaginal tear that required surgical repair by an obstetrician. Soon afterward, Bynum retreated to an empty hospital room, trying to process his feelings about the unexpected complication.

“I didn’t want to see anybody. I didn’t want anybody to find me,” said Bynum, now an at Duke University School of Medicine in North Carolina. “It was a really primitive response.”

Shame is a common and highly uncomfortable human emotion. In the years since that pivotal incident, Bynum has become a among clinicians and researchers who argue that the intense crucible of medical training can amplify shame in future doctors.

He is now part of an emerging effort to teach what he describes as “” to medical school students and practicing physicians. While shame can’t be eliminated, Bynum and his research colleagues maintain that related skills and practices can be developed to reduce the culture of shame and foster a healthier way to engage with it.

Without this approach, they argue, tomorrow’s doctors won’t recognize and address the emotion in themselves and others. And thus, they risk transmitting it to their patients, even inadvertently, which may . Shaming patients can backfire, Bynum said, making them defensive and leading to isolation and sometimes substance use.

The U.S. political environment presents an additional obstacle. Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and other top Trump administration health officials have autism, diabetes, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, and other chronic issues in large part on the lifestyle choices of people with the conditions — or their parents. For instance, FDA Commissioner Marty Makary suggested in a Fox News interview that diabetes could be better treated with cooking classes than “.”

Even before the political shift, that attitude was reflected at doctors’ offices as well. A 2023 study found that when treating patients with Type 2 diabetes. About 44% viewed those patients as lacking motivation to make lifestyle changes, while 39% said they tended to be lazy.

“We don’t like feeling shame. We want to avoid it. It’s very uncomfortable,” said , a nurse at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, who has of related studies, published in 2024. And if the source of shame is from the clinician, the patient may ask, “‘Why would I go back?’ In some cases, that patient may generalize that to the whole health care system.”

Indeed, Christa Reed dropped out of regular medical care for two decades, weary of weight-related lectures. “I was told when I was pregnant that my morning sickness was because I was a plus-size, overweight woman,” she said.

Except for a few urgent medical issues, such as an infected cut, Reed avoided health care providers. “Because going into a doctor for an annual visit would be pointless,” said the now 45-year-old Minneapolis-area wedding photographer. “They would only just tell me to lose weight.”

Then, last year, severe jaw pain drove Reed to seek specialty care. A routine blood pressure check showed a sky-high reading, sending her to the emergency room. “They said, ‘We don’t know how you’re walking around normal,’” she recounted.

Since then, Reed has found supportive physicians with expertise in nutrition. Her blood pressure remains under control with medication. She’s also nearly 100 pounds below her heaviest weight, and she hikes, bikes, and lifts weights to build muscle.

, a California psychiatrist, is among a group of physicians trying to bring attention to the detrimental effects of shame and develop strategies to prevent and mitigate it. While this effort is in the early stages, she co-led a session on the spiral of shame at the American Psychiatric Association’s annual meeting in May.

If physicians don’t acknowledge shame in themselves, they can be at risk of depression, , sleeping difficulties, and other ripple effects that erode patient care, she said.

“We often don’t talk about how important the human connection is in medicine,” Woodward said. “But if your doctor is burned out or feeling like they don’t deserve to be your doctor, patients feel that. They can tell.”

In a survey conducted this year, 37% of graduating students at some point in medical school. And nearly 20% described public humiliation, according to the annual survey by the Association of American Medical Colleges.

Medical students and resident physicians are already prone to perfectionism, along with an almost “masochistic” work ethic, as Woodward described it. Then they’re run through a gantlet of exams and years of training, amid constant scrutiny and with patients’ lives on the line.

During training, physicians work in teams and make presentations to teaching faculty about a patient’s medical issues and their recommended treatment approach. “You trip over your words. You miss things. You get things out of order. You go blank,” Bynum said. And then shame creeps in, he said, leading to other debilitating thoughts, such as “‘I’m no good at this. I’m an idiot. Everyone around me would have done this so much better.’”

Yet shame remains “a crack in your armor that you don’t want to show,” said , a family medicine physician at the University of Utah who has taught medical students about the potential for shame as part of a broader ethics and humanities course.

“You’re taking care of a human life,” she said. “Heaven forbid that you act like you’re not capable or you show fear.”

When students are taught about shame, the goal is to help future physicians recognize the emotion in themselves and others, so they don’t perpetuate the cycle, Pippitt said. “If you felt shamed throughout your medical education, it normalizes that as the experience,” she said.

Above all, physicians-in-training can work to reframe their mindset when they receive a poor grade or struggle to master a new skill, said Woodward, the California psychiatrist. Instead of believing that they’ve failed as a physician, they can focus on what they got wrong and ways to improve.

Last year, Bynum started teaching Duke physicians about shame competence, beginning with roughly 20 OB-GYN residents. This year, he launched a larger initiative with , a research and training partnership between Duke University and the University of Exeter in England that he co-founded, to reach about 300 people across Duke’s Department of Family Medicine and Community Health, including faculty and residents.

This sort of training is rare among Duke OB-GYN resident ’s peers in other programs. Dancel, who completed the training, now strives to support students as they learn skills such as how to suture. She hopes they will pay that approach forward in “a chain reaction of being kind to each other.”

More than a decade after Bynum experienced that stressful emergency delivery, he still regrets that shame kept him from checking on the mother as he usually would following delivery. “I was too scared of how she was going to react to me,” he said.

“It was a little devastating,” he said, when a colleague later told him that the mother wished he had stopped by. “She had passed a message along to thank me for saving her baby’s life. If I had just given myself a chance to hear that, that would have really helped in my recovery, to be forgiven.”

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U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents have also shown up at community clinics. Health providers say that officers have tried to hosting a mobile clinic, waved a machine gun in the faces of clinicians serving the homeless, and hauled a passerby into an unmarked car outside a community health center.

In response to such immigration enforcement activity in and around clinics and hospitals, Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom last month signed , which prohibits medical establishments from allowing federal agents without a valid search warrant or court order into private areas, including places where patients receive treatment or discuss health matters.

But while the bill received broad support from medical groups, health care workers, and immigrant rights advocates, legal experts say California can’t stop federal authorities from carrying out duties in public places, which include hospital lobbies and general waiting areas, health facility parking lots, and surrounding neighborhoods — places where recent ICE activities have sparked outrage and fear. Previous federal restrictions on immigration enforcement in or near sensitive areas, including health care establishments, were rescinded by the Trump administration in January.

“The issue that states encounter is the ,” said , a supervising attorney and clinical teaching fellow at Georgetown Law. She said the federal government does have the right to conduct enforcement activities, and there are limits to what the state can do to stop them.

California’s law designates a patient’s immigration status and birthplace as protected information, which like medical records cannot be disclosed to law enforcement without a warrant or court order. And it requires health care facilities to have clear procedures for handling requests from immigration authorities, including training staff to immediately notify a designated administrator or legal counsel if agents ask to enter a private area or review patient records.

Several other Democratic-led states have also taken up legislation to protect patients at hospitals and health centers. In May, Colorado Gov. Jared Polis signed the bill, which penalizes hospitals for unauthorized sharing of information about people in the country illegally and bars ICE agents from entering private areas of health care facilities without a judicial warrant. In Maryland, requiring the attorney general to create guidance on keeping ICE out of health care facilities went into effect in June. New Mexico has instituted , and Rhode Island has from asking patients about their immigration status.

Republican-led states have aligned with federal efforts to prevent health care spending on immigrants without legal authorization. Such immigrants are not eligible for comprehensive Medicaid coverage, but states do bill the federal government for in certain cases. Under a , Florida requires hospitals that accept Medicaid to ask about a patient’s legal status. In Texas, hospitals now have to report how much they spend on care for immigrants without legal authorization.

“Texans should not have to shoulder the burden of financially supporting medical care for illegal immigrants,” Gov. Greg Abbott said in issuing his last year.

California’s efforts to rein in federal enforcement come as the state, where more than a quarter of residents , has become a target of President Donald Trump’s immigration crackdown. Newsom signed SB 81 as part of a prohibiting immigration agents from entering schools without a warrant, requiring law enforcement officers to identify themselves, and banning officers from wearing masks. SB 81 was passed on a party-line vote with no formal opposition.

“We’re not North Korea,” Newsom said during a September bill-signing ceremony. “We’re pushing back against these authoritarian tendencies and actions of this administration.”

Some supporters of the bill and legal experts said California’s law can prevent ICE from violating existing patient privacy rights. Those include the Fourth Amendment, which without a warrant in places where people have a reasonable expectation of privacy. Valid warrants must be . But ICE agents frequently use administrative warrants to try to gain access to private areas they don’t have the authority to enter, Genovese said.

“People don’t always understand the difference between an administrative warrant, which is a meaningless piece of paper, versus a judicial warrant that is enforceable,” Genovese said. Judicial warrants are rarely issued in immigration cases, she added.

The Department of Homeland Security has said or identification requirements for law enforcement officers, slamming them as unconstitutional. The department did not respond to a request for comment on the state’s new rules for health care facilities, which went into immediate effect.

Tanya Broder, a senior counsel with the National Immigration Law Center, said immigration arrests at health care facilities appear to be relatively rare. But the federal decision to rescind protections around sensitive areas, she said, “has generated fear and uncertainty across the country.” Many of the most high-profile news reports of immigration agents at health care facilities have been in California, largely involving detained patients brought in for care.

The California Nurses Association, the state’s largest nurses union, was a co-sponsor of the bill and raised concerns about the treatment of Milagro Solis-Portillo, a 36-year-old Salvadoran woman who was under round-the-clock ICE surveillance at Glendale Memorial Hospital over the summer.

Union leaders also of agents at California Hospital Medical Center south of downtown Los Angeles. According to Anne Caputo-Pearl, a labor and delivery nurse and the chief union representative at the hospital, agents brought in a patient on Oct. 21 and remained in the patient’s room for almost a week. The reported that a TikTok streamer, Carlitos Ricardo Parias, was taken to the hospital that day after he was wounded during an immigration enforcement operation in South Los Angeles.

The presence of ICE was intimidating for nurses and patients, Caputo-Pearl said, and prompted visitor restrictions at the hospital. “We want better clarification,” she said. “Why is it that these agents are allowed to be in the room?”

Hospital and clinic representatives, however, said they are already following the law’s requirements, which largely reinforce put out by state Attorney General Rob Bonta in December.

Community clinics throughout Los Angeles County, which serve over 2 million patients a year, including a large portion of immigrants, have been implementing the attorney general’s guidelines for months, said Louise McCarthy, president and CEO of the Community Clinic Association of Los Angeles County. But she said the law should help ensure uniform standards across health facilities that clinics refer out to and reassure patients that procedures are in place to protect them.

Still, it can’t prevent immigration raids from happening in the broader community, which have made some patients and even health workers afraid to venture outside, McCarthy said. Some incidents have occurred near clinics, including an arrest of a passerby outside a clinic in East Los Angeles, which a security guard caught on video, she said.

“We’ve had clinic staff say, ‘Is it safe for me to go out?’” she said.

At St. John’s Community Health, a network of 24 community health centers and five mobile clinics in South Los Angeles and the Inland Empire, CEO Jim Mangia agreed that the new law can’t prevent all immigration enforcement activity, but he said it does give clinics a tool to push back if agents show up, something his staff has already had to do.

Mangia said St. John’s staff had two encounters with immigration agents over the summer. In one, he said, staff stopped armed officers from entering a gated parking lot at a drug and alcohol recovery center where doctors and nurses were seeing patients at a mobile health clinic.

Another occurred in July, when immigration agents MacArthur Park on horses and in armored vehicles, in a show of force by the Trump administration. Mangia said masked officers in full tactical gear surrounded a street medicine tent where St. John’s providers were tending to homeless patients, screamed at staff to get out, and pointed a gun at them. The providers were so shaken by the episode, Mangia said, that he had to bring in mental health professionals to help them feel safe going back out on the street.

A DHS spokesperson told CalMatters that in the rare instance where agents enter certain sensitive locations, officers would need “.”

Since then, St. John’s has doubled down on providing support and training to staff and has offered patients afraid to go out the option of home medical visits and grocery deliveries. Patient fears and ICE activity have decreased since the summer, Mangia said, but with DHS planning to , he doubts that will last.

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