VT Works

My parents used to listen to Simon & Garfunkel on long car rides when I was a kid. Back then, “The Sound of Silence” was just a song. Ok fine – a boring song.

Lately, it is starting to feel more like a goal.

Would you be surprised if I told you that after a day of seeing patients, I enjoy driving home without the radio on? Would you be even more surprised if I were to admit that I am not even sure if the radio works?

There’s something almost sacred about that quiet drive. Not peaceful in the spa-day sense…more like the kind of quiet that gently hums after a full day of human interaction. Eight, ten, sometimes twelve conversations deep, my brain finally gets to clock out of “engaged listener mode” and into “just exist and stare at the road” mode. It’s less about silence, and more about not needing to respond to anything.

Because let’s be honest, talking to patients all day is a very specific kind of talking. It’s not casual. It’s not passive. It’s intentional, layered, and at times, wildly unpredictable. You walk into a session thinking you’re going to work on tracking or convergence, and five minutes later you’re deep in a conversation about Minecraft strategies, middle school drama, or why someone’s goldfish is acting “a little off.”

And I love it.

There’s an art to it, really. The ability to meet someone exactly where they are, whether they’re seven years old, seventeen, or seventy, and create a connection that makes the work possible. Some patients need energy. Some need calm. Some need structure. And some just need you to pretend, for a brief moment, that the Brock string is the most exciting object ever created.

(Don’t judge – depending on the day, it might be.)

The conversations themselves are often the best part. Kids say things that are unintentionally hilarious. Adults say things that are unintentionally profound. And occasionally, someone says something so perfectly timed that you have to pause for a second, not as a clinician, but as a human being trying not to laugh at the absolute brilliance of what just happened.

Of course, there’s also the other side of it. The constant engagement. The subtle pressure of being “on” all day. The awareness that every interaction matters, that tone matters, that timing matters. It’s rewarding, but it’s also a lot. You’re not just running activities, you’re holding space, guiding experiences, and adjusting in real time.

Which is probably why that silent car ride hits the way it does.

No questions. No responses. No need to interpret body language or choose the right words. Just a little decompression chamber between the clinic and the rest of life. It’s not burnout, it’s just balance. A reset button that doesn’t require anything from you except showing up and letting your brain idle for a few minutes.

And then, almost without realizing it, you start to miss it.

Not the noise, but the people.

Because as much as the quiet is appreciated, it’s the conversations that give the day its meaning. It’s the small wins, the shared laughs, the moments where a patient realizes they can do something they couldn’t do before. It’s the connection that turns a clinical task into something much more human.

So at the end of the day, I get in my car, start the engine, and sit in complete silence. No music. No podcasts. No one asking me to explain why their eyes feel “weird when they blink fast.” Just me, the road, and absolutely nothing else.

And honestly…if the radio does work, I’m not sure I will ever know.