LGBTIQ + medical trainees navigate a heteronormative training environment that is often abrasive, unsafe, and marked by subtle and overt forms of violence and oppression. Within this toxic culture, they actively seek out safe spaces—both inside clinical settings and beyond the walls of medicine—to preserve their well-being and affirm their identities. Their own experiences of vulnerability often foster a deepened capacity for empathy, particularly toward marginalized patients; for some, this empathic stance extends to all patients, grounded in a recognition of illness as a shared condition of human fragility. From these experiences emerges a distinctive mode of professional identity that we conceptualize as The Care Weaver. This figure challenges traditional models of detached, impersonal medical professionalism, instead embodying a relationally grounded approach to care. Rooted in lived marginalization and a critical awareness of structural power, the Care Weaver crafts their clinical identity through personal experience, empathic attunement, and a commitment to making medicine safer and more humane. We expand these concepts within the following four main categories of our analysis.
Navigating Medical Terrain as a Risk Map
Participants described medical school and residency as structured by implicit norms of heteronormativity, cisnormativity, classism, racism, and professional rigidity. These overlapping systems of oppression created heightened vulnerability for LGBTIQ + trainees, particularly for those situated at the intersection of diverse sexual orientations, gender identities, social class, racial or ethnic background, and mental health histories. The violence they experienced could be overt or physical, but also took the form of subtle, cumulative harm. Trainees responded with emotional self-monitoring, anticipatory fear of rejection or discrimination or silence in the face of microaggressions. The following excerpt exemplifies this:
“I feel that I was an easy target, […] at one point I also suffered stigma against HIV, without having HIV, […] people started to say that I had HIV because I always handed out condoms and I was always involved in that, I was part of, like a health prevention group, they gave me condoms to hand out. […] Once I had an incident and then I started taking HIV prophylaxis and it was really bad for me […] it made me really, really, really sick […] so people start rumouring I had HIV” Participant 1
This violence made the act of navigating medical culture a constant negotiation of risk, visibility, and safety. Many learned to read the landscape as a risk map, carefully deciding when and how to disclose parts of their identity. However, for those at the intersection of multiple marginalized identities—such as being both racialized and perceived as a woman—concealment was often not an option. Visibility was not always a choice but a condition imposed by social perception, rendering some trainees vulnerable regardless of their intent to disclose. In these cases, the very possibility of strategic invisibility collapsed, exposing the uneven distribution of risk within the LGBTIQ + community. Visibility, then, functioned both as a tactical decision and as an unavoidable condition shaped by embodiment and context. The following participant describes this complexity:
“I am many minorities in one; I am a woman by birth, I'm black, I'm bi, but I have a preference for women. I'm non-binary, I hate the molds, so it's like I express too many sides. I'm a shitty, I'm a chaos […] I also am a scholarship holder, so people used to ignore me or throw in my face the fact that I did not have the same economic capabilities as they did. So at the end of the day, that always felt ugly because it's not my fault that my family doesn't have the, I don't know how many millions, to pay for the semester and all of that. […] And now, when men perceive me as a woman they call me “young lady”, or “princess”, and I'm like ‘I'm not a princess, I'm a doctor’. Participant 6
Participants also voiced a sustained critique of the absence of policies, academic training, and clear institutional guidelines regarding sexual and gender diversity in medical schools and residency programs. Beyond individual experiences of discrimination or silence, a collective awareness emerged: the medical environment was unprepared to include, educate, or care for LGBTIQ + individuals—whether as trainees or patients. Institutional invisibility functioned as a form of passive yet persistent violence—not by explicitly prohibiting identity expression, but by actively avoiding naming it, legitimizing it, or preparing to recognize it, as explained in the following quote:
“No, I've never had a class at university or anything that made me think: ‘I'm more prepared to care for a trans person or an LGBTIQ + person.’ The approach has always been rather heteronormative or cisnormative; that topic has never been discussed in class.” Participant 5
This critique extended beyond the classroom. In clinical settings, participants described unease at how the lack of specific and sensitive training led to stigmatizing practices—even in specialties where gender awareness should be central, such as gynecology, infectious disease, or public health. Several recalled situations in which faculty framed patients’ sexual orientation as crude clinical risk markers, reinforcing harmful stereotypes. This placed LGBTIQ + trainees in a conflicted position: they understood firsthand the consequences of such reductionism, yet lacked the tools and institutional support to question it safely. The following excerpt shows an example of this:
“Yesterday a lady came to us with an HPV infection, a daily occurrence in gynecology. So, the doctor told her what he always tells the patients, but then the lady asked: ‘doctor, but what if I have [sexual] relations with women and the only option you tell me to not get infected and reinfect myself is to use a condom’, the doctor said ‘it depends on what you want, but what we advice you is to use a condom’, I was shocked that day.” Participant 2
Building Refuge to Endure and Belong
In response to exclusion or symbolic violence, participants sought or created spaces of refuge. Outside of medicine, these included drag and clown communities, queer artistic collectives, close friendships, activist groups, and intimate relationships—spaces where they felt not only safe but fully seen and celebrated. These environments allowed participants to reconnect with joy, express complexity, and recover from the daily emotional toll of navigating medical institutions. This is exemplified by a participant (a pansexual cis male on a poliamorous relationship) when talking about his friends outside the medical field:
“They are, I mean, they are my safe place. So I can tell them things, and that really gives me a lot of peace because, let's say at the beginning, well, at the hospital or with other people I was not transparent, so I felt uncomfortable, but now, I don't know, being with my friends, telling them “I'm going to see my boyfriends” That, even though it sounds like something minimal, I think it's pretty nice to be tranquil, because hiding is ugly.” Participant 16
Within the medical field, some participants identified select faculty members, senior residents, but mostly peers as sources of refuge—those who demonstrated openness, used affirming language, or created learning environments free from judgment. However, these medical safe spaces were often perceived as more limited or conditional: dependent on individual allies rather than institutional support, and often requiring high performance or cautious self-presentation. The following participant describes this complexity:
“I have never told a doctor I have been with ‘look I am bisexual’, I have never shared an experience like that, what I do think is true is that there are doctors that maybe you realize or they openly share that they are part of the [LGBTIQ+] community and in that sense you feel a little more confident […] when a doctor says I am gay, bisexual or whatever, I feel more confident with that doctor.” Participant 11
These refuges were not marginal to their formation; they were foundational. Participants described them as lifelines that allowed them to process trauma, feel affirmed and legimitized, and reconnect with their desire to become doctors. These spaces offered emotional repair and, often, clarity about the kind of physician they hoped to be, as described by the following participant:
“I worked for a year with the Psychological and Health Counseling Center of the University. And there I did very well. I mean, I don't know if it was because we were all interested in mental health issues, but... it was like a more open-minded, a very pleasant environment, I felt welcomed, I felt I could talk freely. […] what we did was like active listening interventions on campus, we did a course on emotional first aid, mainly that, but we met every Friday to plan activities around mental health, […] which is what I would like to do in the future as doctor.” Participant 3
Knowing Vulnerability from the Inside
Participants expressed that their own experiences of precarity, exclusion, or mental distress shaped how they understood vulnerability in patients. This was especially evident in how they related to other marginalized patients like low income, queer or trans patients—for some of them also expanded into a broader understanding of illness as a condition of dependence, fear, and stigma as one of our participants described in the following excerpt:
“Well, that's the way I treat my patients, the moment I understood that illness is like the most vulnerable moment of a person, something changed mentally in me, that makes me much more understanding of the reasons as to why people behave the way they do and eventually knowing that the way I can treat that person will change something in their life, even if it is small, that's what generally fills me up.” Participant 2
Rather than distancing themselves emotionally, these trainees used their own pain as a point of connection. Their empathy was not abstract—it was embodied, practiced, and grounded in recognition. One participant shared how his strained relationship with his mother, who struggled for years to accept his sexuality, shaped his understanding of defensiveness in trans women patients. He recognized their reactivity not as hostility, but as a protective response rooted in long histories of rejection. His experience of managing love and tension with his mother helped him approach patients with similar emotional guardedness with greater openness, patience, and care, as it is articulated in the following quote:
“Trans women tend to be a bit more demanding as patients. They tend to be more reactive [...] I think that in a certain way, one can understand where that reactivity comes from. [...] I remember that I was very reactive with my mom when I fought with her, and over nothing, I was predisposed, because you say: ‘whatever comes out of her mouth, she's going to attack me’. And for them [trans women], it's their day-to-day life with everyone. They always encounter people who masculinize them, who don't use the right pronouns. So they are always super predisposed all the time. So, I feel like I understand them because I've lived that a little bit.” Participant 14
Crafting the Care Weaver
For our participants, vulnerability was not solely a liability—it was also a conduit for connection. Vulnerability became an interpretive lens through which they could relate to patients’ distress. As they reflected on their professional identities as doctors, many voiced a deliberate rejection of dominant ideals of medical detachment, criticizing its dehumanizing effects. Instead, they envisioned a different kind of a doctor—one grounded in relationality, openness, and empathical responsiveness. The intersection of these two forces—recognizing shared vulnerability and rejecting emotional distance—sparked a transformative reimagining of what it means to be a doctor. In this crucible, the identity of the Care Weaver was not only formed but actively claimed, signaling a refusal to separate care from selfhood, or empathy from authority.
“Being that detached, that seems absurd to me,[…] I think about that every day, because it really bothers me, the classic approach of medicine bothers me, everything quantitative, everything, it's the hormone, it's this value, it's the cut-off point, this is the treatment, that bothers me because I feel that it's not real [...] I had many problems with seeing myself as a doctor, and here, I mean, I really did not feel it was my place, I wanted to connect with people, and I realized that they do not have to be different things, I mean, who says we can not help vulnerable groups, [...] In a way, my queer identity enabled me to reconcile with my identity as a doctor.” Participant 3
Participants envisioned their consultations as places where patients, especially those marginalized by gender, sexuality, or class, could feel emotionally and physically safe. Their intention was not only to avoid harm, but to actively foster environments of affirmation, respect, and human connection. The following quotes exemplify this:
“As I said, it is very important for me to find safe spaces and that is how I would like to project myself in the future, that is, to be a safe space for someone else, because I consider that at least for now I think I am very attentive to my patients, I always listen to what they have to tell me, their problems, I think I am very open for them to tell me things and I would like to continue working on that, I see doctors who are very cold, who are very distant,[…] that is not how I would like or how I see myself in the future. Really, just as I´m constantly looking for those safe spaces, I would also like to make a safe space for someone else, especially for patients.” Participant 4
At times, this included strategic decisions to tone down or repress aspects of their own gender expression—for instance, choosing not to wear nail polish or visibly queer attire—so that even conservative patients would feel at ease. Rather than interpreting this as assimilation, participants framed it as a form of relational sacrifice made in service of safety and care, as explained in the following quote:
“For example, I really like to paint my nails but I stopped painting my nails because I was afraid of losing the connection with the patients, which I feel I have a very good connection with, it is also like there is an effort to connect with the patient and that kind of diversed expressions I stopped doing because well, I didn't want it to compromise the relationship I have with the patients, because even if a patient is sexist, the relationship I have with him is due to a state of vulnerability that the patient has” Participant 0
Empathy, for Care Weavers, was not a soft skill but a hard-earned form of clinical intelligence. Their ability to listen deeply, read between lines, and respond to emotional undercurrents stemmed from their lived experience. Rather than viewing empathy as oppositional to scientific rigor, they positioned it as essential to good care:
“If a woman tells me she doesn’t use contraception, I don’t immediately question her or judge her, like some doctors might—saying, ‘Why not? What do you mean you don’t plan?’ Because I’ve been in that situation myself. I’m a lesbian, so pregnancy isn’t a concern for me, but doctors have still asked me if I use birth control, and when I say no, they look at me like something’s wrong. They just don’t get it. And then keep insisting me to take oral contraceptives, it is quite uncomfortable. So when a patient says something similar, I don’t assume anything—I think, maybe she’s like me” Participant 17