As humans, we all share a basic need for belonging. Now, imagine being a young woman raised in a household, community, or culture where it was taboo to talk about your health. The first time you felt a pain that took over your lower body—cyclical, debilitating, silencing—you stayed quiet. The fear of speaking about it outweighed your need for relief.
Finally, you take the brave step to seek medical care, perhaps nudged by your mother or sister, who come along to support you. You walk into your community health center heavy with anxiety, uncertain of what to expect. Then your doctor walks in.
She greets your mother and sister first, gently claps the elder’s hand, sits down right next to you, and says with a smile, “¿Cómo está?” Her presence shatters your expectations of what a doctor looks like. She is petite, brown-skinned, freckled, with dark hair, and she moves about as if she has known you for years—like distant family. She flows between English and Spanish with ease, recognizing that everyone in the room lives in both languages.
This is the power of representation.
Moments like these have the potential to transform patient experiences. However, Latino representation remains low. Latinos represent only 6% of the physician workforce, and Latinas make up just 2% of all physicians in the United States. This is in stark contrast to our country’s demographics. The Latino population is among the fastest growing—half of all babies born in California are Latino. By birthrate alone, our population will continue to shape the future of this country.
Representation heals. For communities with histories of marginalization and persistent health disparities, the lack of Latino physicians isn’t just a statistic—it’s a barrier to health equity. Studies show that racial and cultural concordance between patients and providers improves communication, builds trust, increases satisfaction, and leads to better outcomes.
In my 15 years as an OB/GYN, I have seen this truth play out repeatedly. The moment I walk into an exam room, patients often exhale and say, “¡Qué bueno que habla español!” The energy shifts immediately. Trust forms. The imbalance of power in healthcare softens when there is shared language, culture, and lived experience. Patients feel seen. And when patients feel a sense of belonging, they are more willing to share their stories, their symptoms, their fears. That is when true healing begins.
When a young person comes to me with delayed care for something as common as menstrual cramps, I don’t ask, “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why didn’t you take medicine? Why did you bring your family?” I already know why. As a Latina myself, I was raised in a culture where reproductive health was surrounded by silence and shame. So instead, I honor that young person’s bravery in showing up and I honor the family who came in support. By doing so, I build trust in the exam room which allows for conversations that we once buried in silence to finally surface.
Representation is crucial. We must build pathways for future Latino physicians and create spaces where all people see themselves reflected in medicine. Because when healthcare providers reflect the communities they serve, they create belonging.
And belonging heals.
Necesitamos más.