What The Pitt teaches us about the power of medical communication

With echoes of the early seasons of Michael Crichton’s ER and a renewed approach to medical storytelling, The Pitt struck audiences with its honesty and perceived authenticity. It occupied a space we did not quite know existed, speaking candidly about the realities faced by patients and emergency staff today. Its pacing felt urgent yet grounded. Its cases felt recognisable. Its dialogue felt, at times, uncomfortably real. But can we learn anything about medical communication from the show? Read the article to find out.

It may be a generalisation to say that people working in healthcare settings tend to disregard medical dramas, but it is one I have often found to be true.

“It’s a fantasy world. Unrealistic.”

“It lacks plausibility.”

“I wish I had that much time to mope around corridors and hook up in on-call rooms.”

“I wish I had an actual on-call room, and not just a chair in a corner.”

All of that may be true. 

However, in this familiar critique, we often overlook something important: medical dramas help shape the lens through which very real people view the healthcare world.

It is curious, but inevitable. Amid the personal storylines and occasionally creative diagnostic leaps, these shows take root – slowly but steadily – into the minds of future patients. They define expectations, influence perceptions of competence, empathy, hierarchy, urgency… And even the way doctors and nurses are expected to speak.

In other words, they shape how healthcare communication is understood.

Patients do not enter hospitals as blank slates. They arrive carrying narratives, visual references, emotional expectations, and assumptions about tone, pace, and authority. 

Should doctors speak in rapid-fire jargon?

Should they soften difficult news?

Should they appear detached, emotional, heroic?

Medical dramas answer these questions long before any real-life interaction ever takes place.

Enter The Pitt.

With echoes of the early seasons of Michael Crichton’s ER and a renewed approach to medical storytelling, The Pitt struck audiences with its honesty and perceived authenticity. It occupied a space we did not quite know existed, speaking candidly about the realities faced by patients and emergency staff today. Its pacing felt urgent yet grounded. Its cases felt recognisable. Its dialogue felt, at times, uncomfortably real.

The response from medical professionals was striking – not (too many) eyerolls, but (somewhat cautious) recognition.

“That’s mostly accurate.”

“That’s exactly how that feels.”

“I’ve been in that situation.”

Smiles and nods replaced cynicism. Recognition replaced dismissal.

The result was awards, accolades, and general praise from both patients and healthcare professionals. More importantly, it achieved something rare for a medical drama: credibility.

Now, with season two underway, the dust has settled enough to allow for reflection. It is well established that The Pitt strives for realism in its clinical settings, ethical dilemmas, and portrayal of daily strain. But a more strategic question remains, especially for those of us working in healthcare communication: 

What can we learn from The Pitt about medical communication?

Because beyond the trauma and tense silences, the procedures and emotional arcs, the show repeatedly demonstrates something fundamental: communication – between professionals and with patients – is not an accessory to medicine.

It is part of the intervention itself.

And that is where the real lesson lies.

(Warning: Spoilers from season one ahead. Proceed at your own risk.)

1. On defining one’s audience

One of the clearest lessons from The Pitt is that effective communication starts with knowing exactly who you are talking to.

This is hardly revolutionary advice. And yet, in medical communication – especially in medical documentation – we still default to overly simplistic categories: “the general public,” “healthcare professionals,” and, if we feel particularly precise, “specialists” versus “primary care.”

It is not enough.

Why? Let us revisit episode 7 and the clinical case of Terrance (Coby Bird), a young autistic patient who presents with an injured ankle. Early on, Dr. Frank Langdon (Patrick Ball) dismisses him, interpreting his behaviour as uncooperative. The turning point comes when Dr. Mel King (Taylor Dearden) recognises what is really happening: the problem is not non-compliance, but a misalignment in communication. She adjusts her approach, reducing stimuli, modulating her tone, offering structured and concrete explanations, and respecting his processing time.

She does not simply “explain better.” She communicates differently.

That distinction is crucial.

The uncomfortable truth is that there is no such thing as a truly general audience. A regulatory assessor reading a clinical study report is not engaging with the text in the same way as a specialist clinician scanning a paper for practice-changing data. A patient advocate looks for clarity and transparency. A caregiver seeks reassurance and actionable steps.

And even within the category of “patients,” diversity is profound. Health literacy varies. Cultural context matters. Emotional state influences comprehension. Neurodivergent individuals, cognitively impaired patients, or people living with conditions such as Alzheimer’s disease require tailored communication strategies. Layout, font size, sentence structure, terminology, and even document length can all influence accessibility.

When we label a document as being for the “general public,” we risk writing for no one in particular.

The lesson is simple: defining your audience is not a bureaucratic formality. It is a strategic decision. It shapes tone, structure, terminology, and depth. It determines whether the communication is merely delivered or actually received.

So, the next time you are asked to define your audience, resist the temptation to settle for broad categories. Think in layers. Think in specifics. Think in needs.

2. On the efficiency of a calm and controlled process

Healthcare is no stranger to crisis. We do not need to look beyond the COVID-19 pandemic to remember this. In that global emergency, medical communication became critical. Information had to move fast, but it also had to be accurate. Guidance evolved. Evidence shifted. Public fear intensified. Clear, consistent, calm communication was not a luxury. It was the foundation of public trust.

In The Pitt, the crisis is more contained but equally revealing: a mass shooting at a festival that overwhelms the emergency department. Patients arrive in waves. Resources are stretched. Emotions run high. The atmosphere is charged – logistically and emotionally.

And yet, something subtle stands out.

In the middle of chaos, there is no running.

The team moves quickly, but deliberately. There is urgency without panic. Instructions are clear. Roles are understood. Communication remains structured. When someone rushes without situational awareness, there are immediate consequences. Even a slip in blood on the floor becomes an unspoken metaphor: haste without control is dangerous.

This is a powerful reminder: efficiency in healthcare is not speed alone. It is controlled efficacy.

Calm is not the absence of urgency. It is the presence of structure.

The parallel with everyday medical communication is immediate. Tight deadlines, last-minute data updates, shifting regulatory requirements: these are our own versions of emergency-room pressure.

The instinct to rush is strong. But speed without structure leads to inconsistencies, contradictory messaging, and, ultimately, loss of credibility.

When processes are clearly defined – and consistently followed – the workflow becomes natural. Review cycles are smoother, feedback is integrated with intention, and terminology remains coherent across documents. Unexpected challenges still arise, of course. But they are easier to manage because the foundation is stable.

The lesson for healthcare organizations is straightforward: robust communication processes are not administrative burdens. They are risk mitigation mechanisms.

In both emergency departments and medical communication, crises are inevitable. Disarray is not. And, in both settings, the real key to efficiency is calm.

3. On the benefits of overexplaining 

I don’t know about you, but one of my personal highlights of season one was student doctor Dennis Whitaker (Gerran Howell). There is something endearing about a character who seems permanently shadowed by bad luck (I’m sure you agree that four scrub changes in a single shift is… wild!). 

And yet, beneath the comic relief lies one of the most instructive moments of the season.

Few scenes were as jarring as the one in which Whitaker nonchalantly drills an intraosseous (IO) line into a fully conscious, fully alert patient.

Ouch.

From his perspective, the reasoning was sound. The instruction had been clear: in mass-casualty scenarios, IO access is fast, reliable, and often more practical than attempting intravenous access. Every patient gets one. Efficient. Logical. Decisive.

Except for one crucial detail.

IO access is typically reserved for unconscious patients because it is invasive and extremely painful. It involves drilling directly into bone. For the senior physicians present, this was obvious. So obvious, in fact, that no one verbalised it.

To Whitaker, it clearly was not.

Yes, the moment reflects inexperience. But it also reveals a broader truth: what feels self-evident to one professional may be completely invisible to another.

And that is where the lesson lies.

In medical communication, underexplaining is often riskier than overexplaining. When in doubt (and as communicators, we should always allow space for doubt), it is safer to clarify than to assume shared understanding. Especially in healthcare, where complexity is routine and the stakes are high. 

This does not mean infantilising your audience or burdening them with unnecessary details. It means anticipating ambiguity. Identifying potential misinterpretations before they surface. Making implicit reasoning explicit when it affects decision-making.

The balance lies in structure. Information should reduce cognitive friction, not increase it. You respect the reader’s intelligence while recognising that no one has access to your internal logic unless you articulate it.

The Whitaker moment is uncomfortable precisely because the gap in explanation becomes painfully visible. A “rule” that everyone assumed was common knowledge turns out not to be shared at all.

In communication, most errors begin in those invisible assumptions. What remains unsaid can matter just as much as what is spoken. Better, then, to make it explicit the first time.

These three aspects are only a glimpse of what The Pitt can teach us. If a television drama can bring these principles to life so convincingly under fictional pressure, imagine what they can achieve when applied deliberately and intentionally in real-world healthcare communication.

Ultimately, The Pitt reminds us that medicine is never just about procedures. It is about people. And people need clarity.

Defining audiences with precision. Building structured processes. Choosing to clarify rather than assume. These are not narrative devices – they are professional responsibilities. 

In healthcare, communication is both a clinical and a strategic tool. When handled well, it builds trust, mitigates risk, and supports better decision-making. And that is a lesson worth carrying far beyond the screen.

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Mariana is an English and French to Portuguese medical translator and linguistic validation consultant with a background as a healthcare professional. She combines clinical knowledge with linguistic expertise to deliver accurate, context-aware translations and validation projects for the life sciences sector, ensuring clarity, compliance, and reliability at every step.