When I became chair of the Department of Internal Medicine at our multispecialty outpatient clinic in Northeast Georgia — part of the Northside Hospital system — I didn’t feel any different. There was no spotlight. No big announcement. No internal shift in how I saw myself. My routine stayed the same: I woke up early, saw patients, and spent my days trying to help people feel better, listened to, and understood. My title at the clinic may have changed, but to my patients, I was still just Dr. Nadelson. Leadership didn’t change who I was. It gave me a new kind of responsibility.
We’re the largest department in our practice, and we continue to grow. I’ve had the opportunity to be a part of that growth — interviewing new physicians, collaborating on department goals, and helping to shape the kind of team I’d want to work in myself. I’ve never seen leadership as a platform for control. If anything, I believe the best leaders are the ones who get out of the way.
I’ve never wanted to micromanage anyone. We’re professionals. Adults. Doctors, PAs, NPs, MAs — we all bring our own strengths and pressures, both inside and outside the outpatient clinic. Some of us are parents. Some are caregivers. Some are fighting silent battles no one knows about. I try never to forget that. My job isn’t to dictate. My job is to create an environment where people can thrive. That’s why I focus on building trust, not power.
When new clinicians join our team, I tell them this is their time to shine. I don’t want to interfere with how they practice. I’m here to support them, not monitor them. If I’ve done my job right, they’ll never feel like they’re being watched; they’ll feel like they’re being backed.
This philosophy stems from my own journey in medicine. Like many physicians, I’ve been on the receiving end of systems that didn’t always feel supportive. Systems where burnout simmered beneath the surface. Where hierarchy stifled collaboration. I knew if I ever found myself in a leadership role, I’d want to do things differently.
So I lead with humility. I lead like a colleague, not a commander. I don’t need to be liked — but I am liked, I think, because I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not. I’m not chasing prestige. I’m not interested in office politics. I don’t need to be the loudest voice in the room. My allegiance is, and always has been, to the patients — and to the people who care for them.
That’s where I find meaning. They allow me to be an outpatient clinician first. They trust me to care for my team and my department without constantly pulling me away from the bedside. That kind of respect is rare, and it allows me to stay grounded in the work I love most.
Some people assume that leadership is isolating, that it must be lonely at the top. I’ve never felt that. I owe that in large part to the administration I work with. Having to balance what’s best for one individual with what’s best for the department — these aren’t always easy calls to make. Leadership isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being steady. It’s about being honest. It’s about remembering that you don’t have to know everything, but you do have to listen.
There are moments when difficult decisions land on your shoulders. Times when colleagues look to you for clarity when you don’t have all the answers.
I listen when someone needs help managing their workload. I listen when there’s tension between colleagues. I listen when someone’s feeling overwhelmed and needs to talk. Leadership, at its core, is about presence. You don’t always have to fix things. Sometimes, being there is enough.
The way we show up for one another. The way we cover for someone without making them feel guilty for asking. A healthy department isn’t an accident; it takes intention. It takes reinforcement. It takes someone quietly paying attention, even when everything seems fine on the surface.
It’s also about protecting the culture of the department — something that’s harder to define, but easy to feel. It’s in the way we talk to each other. That’s what I try to do, and I love that responsibility. Not because it feeds my ego, but because it feeds my purpose.
And yet, through all of this, I don’t see myself as “the leader.” I see myself as one of the many. I carry my own patient panel. I get behind on my inbox. I share the same frustrations, joys, and fatigue as other outpatient clinician in our group. That connection keeps me real. It keeps me grounded. Titles come and go. Roles shift. But who you are in the exam room — the one they trust — that sticks with you. That’s the kind of leadership I value. The kind that doesn’t need recognition to be real. Leadership doesn’t have to be loud. It doesn’t have to be lonely, and it doesn’t have to pull you away from what you love.
Sometimes, the strongest form of leadership is the quiet kind — the kind that supports more than it directs, listens more than it speaks, and elevates others without needing the credit.
Excerpted from Practicing While Human: A Doctor’s Journey Beyond the White Coat (American Association for Physician Leadership, 2026).