Stories from medical staff

In the heart of Culiacán, Sinaloa, we discovered a story where aesthetics, health, and empathy intertwine uniquely. We had the pleasure of speaking with Jesús Gagiola, a 27-year-old whose presence in the world of wellness and social media is breaking molds. As a Massage Therapist and Content Creator, Jesús represents a new generation of healthcare professionals who understand that care goes far beyond technique: it's about human connection. I. Who is Jesús Gagiola? The Duality between Aesthetics and Wellness Jesús is not just a friendly face on social media; he is a professional in constant evolution. He currently combines his studies in Cosmetology and Medical Cosmetology with his professional practice in massage therapy. From relaxing massages and hot stones to deep techniques, his work is defined by precision and relief. But there's more. Jesús is also a content creator who uses humor and his love for fashion to connect with thousands of people. For him, looking good and feeling good are two sides of the same coin, a philosophy that is perfectly reflected when he wears our uniforms with impeccable style. II. The Path to Vocation: Overcoming the Internal "No" Jesús's path was not linear. For six years, fear and doubt tried to hinder his dream. "My head told me: 'You can't, this isn't for you,'" he shared with us during the interview. Although his environment and even the "universe" sent him signals about his talent for beauty and personal care, the fear of failure—after a previous experience in another career—kept him static. Finally, Jesús decided to listen to those who saw his potential and, above all, to his own intuition. Today, he understands that those years of waiting were part of his process to value the opportunity to dedicate himself to what he truly loves: the comprehensive care of people. III. More Than a Massage: A Philosophy of Real Help For Jesús, his work has a transcendental meaning that he summarizes in one word: HELP. "You act as a psychologist, as a friend, as that person who listens. You help them physically and mentally." He doesn't see his patients as mere clients; he sees them as individuals seeking refuge. His vision is ambitious: he wants to be a "total professional," someone who masters everything from formal aesthetics to holistic therapy. This ability to be multifaceted—or as he puts it, "to be like a Barbie who can be anything"—is what makes him stand out in the healthcare sector of Mexico. IV. The Power of a "Thank You": Moments That Heal the Therapist During our conversation, Jesús became emotional when recalling the most touching moments of his career. It's not about grand accolades, but about silent and sincere gratitude. Hearing a "Thank you for your hands" or a "You helped me a lot when I was down" is what gives meaning to his days. For Jesús, the "apapachable" connection (that uniquely Mexican term that implies embracing with the soul) is the engine that drives him to keep growing. It's a reminder that while he heals bodies, the words of his patients heal his spirit. V. Looking to the Future: A Message of Persistence When asked what he would say to his "past self," Jesús is emphatic: "Do it, don't stop." His regret for having waited six years has become a life lesson that he now shares with all young people who fear embarking on their path in the health field. In 10 years, Jesús envisions himself not only as a successful massage therapist and cosmetologist but also as a role model who motivates others. His message for future professionals is clear: the path will have ups and downs, like a roller coaster, but every accumulated "thank you" builds a mansion of personal success. Editor's Note: At our brand, we are deeply inspired by professionals like Jesús Gagiola, who wear our uniforms not just as work attire but as a symbol of their commitment to excellence and human well-being. Because caring for others is an art, and Jesús masters it with heart.

@chief.doctor · Santiago NavaGeneral practitioner · Private and home consultations Who he is and what he does Santiago Nava is a general practitioner. He sees patients in his office, but also goes to where patients cannot come – to homes with elderly people who cannot move, bedridden individuals, families who simply need someone to come to them. In addition to consultations, he shares medical content on social media: interesting facts, useful daily tips, things that don't always come up in consultations but that everyone should know. Not to teach like an institution – but to make medicine accessible to people in a simple and practical way. And there's more: he's about to start a master's degree. The details, he says, he cannot yet reveal. He only gives one hint: he has a year to get in athletic shape before he can lead by example. Why he chose this path The honest answer is that medicine was not his first choice. Santiago wanted to study arts – dance, music, singing are passions he holds deeply. His father, may he rest in peace, had studied at the University of Fine Arts in Cuernavaca, and he wanted to follow that same path. They didn't allow him to. It was his mother who guided him towards medicine. At first, he humorously admits, what he saw was the promise of economic stability. But that quickly changed. During his degree, he spent a considerable time in pre-hospital care at the Red Cross – and that changed everything. Being in front of real patients prematurely, in situations of true urgency, awakened something he didn't expect: a genuine love for this work. "Today, I don't regret it at all. It may not have been my first choice, but it was one of the best decisions I could have made in my life." What he believes about medicine For Santiago, the greatest satisfaction of being a doctor is not in the diagnosis or the procedure. It's in the moment when a patient who arrived limited, affected in their family, social, or work life, is discharged and gets their life back. But there's something he clearly emphasizes: the doctor doesn't achieve that alone. Recovery is a joint effort. The doctor provides the tools, the knowledge, the support. But if the patient doesn't discipline themselves, doesn't stick to the treatment, doesn't change the habits that led them there – the result won't come. Medicine, for him, is an alliance. "We both were able to bring about that improvement. I gave him the necessary tools, and he stuck to the treatment. That's how we achieved it together." The moment he won't forget He arrived in a wheelchair, his foot in black bags. The first thing he said was: "Doctor, I've come to have my leg amputated." He was a diabetic patient with advanced diabetic foot. He cared for horses and had tried to treat himself with traditional methods, convinced that if he could heal his animals' wounds, he could heal his own. By the time he arrived, the necrosis had reached midway up his shin. There was no other option. In the operating room, due to an oversight, the curtain fell. The patient saw his leg being removed. He squeezed his arm tightly. He looked into his eyes with tears. Santiago didn't forget him. After that moment, he was more attentive than ever to his progress – out of responsibility, he says, though he doesn't rule out that it was also a sense of moral guilt. The patient recovered, was discharged, and left deeply grateful for how he had been treated. That silent squeeze in the operating room taught him something no medical book can fully explain: the real weight of what it means to be there for someone in the worst moment of their life. Where he's headed and what he tells newcomers In ten years, Santiago sees himself leading a medical team – but with a different approach than what predominates today in Mexico. Here, he says, curative medicine is primarily practiced. What he wants to build is preventive medicine: anticipating illnesses, avoiding complications, accompanying patients before they reach their limit. For those who want to follow in his footsteps, he doesn't sugarcoat the reality: medicine demands sacrifices. Family, social, economic, emotional. But he also has absolute certainty. "At the end of the road, seeing your patients progress and improve pays for all those sacrifices. Success is not at odds with happiness." And to his future self, he has a short, direct message, full of confidence: "Don't doubt what you're doing. Don't lose sight of the goal. I trust you." General medicine Preventive health Vocation IMSS Real stories

@ar.figueroaContent Creator · Creative Production Who he is and what he does Ar is a content creator. He's been at it for five years, and if you had to describe him in one line, you'd say he's dedicated to anything that involves creating, imagining, or shaping an idea. Videos, images, creative projects — if there's a creative process involved, he can be part of it. It's not an easy profession to explain. There's no university degree that trains you for this. But Ar found a way to make a living being creative, and that, he says, is enough. Why he chose this path It wasn't a conscious decision. Ar didn't wake up one day and say, "I'll be creative." He simply always loved creating things — until people around him started telling him it could be a business. And he believed them. What he was clear about from the beginning was what he didn't want: he didn't want a boring job, he didn't want to spend ten years in front of a desk. He wanted something that moved him, that was different every day. When he discovered that creativity could give him that — and also pay the bills — there were no more questions. "When I realized I could be creative and not starve at the same time, that was pretty good." What he believes about creativity For Ar, creating isn't just about making something beautiful. It's a form of communication — perhaps the most honest one. A way to convey things that words alone can't express. A song, a movie, a video can bring together people who otherwise would never have met. They can make someone feel less alone, discover something new, see the world from a different angle. That, for him, is the true value of creativity: its ability to connect. And that same conviction is what keeps him energized. He has no special rituals or secrets to perform better. What drives him is meeting people and discovering how they think — especially those who think differently from him. Every new perspective he finds opens his mind a little more. And a more open mind, he says, is a more creative mind. "The more your brain opens up, the more creative you are. It's like a virtuous cycle: you want to learn more, that excites you, and then you want to keep learning more." The moment he won't forget It was the pandemic. Ar was uploading videos to the internet — fragments of his life, scattered ideas, everyday things. At some point, messages with photos started arriving. People who had seen him on screen and decided to draw him. A little piece of life shared, and someone on the other side felt something so strong they picked up a pencil. He didn't cry, he clarifies with humor. But he cherishes that memory, because it was the first time he understood in a very concrete way what his work is for. Not to impress, not to accumulate views — but to touch someone. For a person, somewhere, to feel something. Where he's going and what he tells beginners Ask him where he sees himself in ten years and he'll tell you he doesn't even know what he's having for dinner. But with a laugh, the answer is clear: doing the same thing, with more order and more intention. Today he's still exploring, creating wherever he can. The next step is to give all of that more structure. And for anyone who wants to follow a similar path, he has very clear advice: don't just copy what has already worked. It's good to be inspired, it's good to learn from what exists — but what truly leaves a mark comes from within. From that place where you keep the things that matter most to you. Dare, even if there's nothing out there that guarantees the result. You have nothing to lose. "If you have something you really want to create, then just do it."

Stories · Nursing Andrea found her calling almost by accident. Today, she cares for the youngest patients with the same empathy she learned from a patient who is no longer here. Andrea Manzanares · @andreamanzzNurse · IMSS · Child School Health The beginning No one arrives in nursing exactly as they planned. Neither did Andrea. In high school, between family pressure and the uncertainties of her age, she made a decision almost by elimination: she wanted something related to health, but not the endless years of medicine. She chose nursing almost without thinking too much. What she didn't know is that this choice would lead her exactly where she needed to be. Today's work Andrea is currently part of a team hired by the IMSS to provide child school health: they visit schools, measure visual acuity, check oral health, and offer that first level of care that many children would not receive otherwise. It's a discreet, silent job, but one that leaves a mark. The story she can't forget There was a patient who was hospitalized for weeks. Andrea was his nurse, until she was transferred to another service and he continued to deteriorate in another ward. Weeks later, when she no longer expected to hear from him, his family appeared. The patient had left a message in his last words: he wanted to thank her. He wanted them to know that she had made a difference. "I've always said that a patient remembering you is very gratifying. To be able to impact someone's life so much... I think that's everything to me." That clash of emotions—gratitude, loss, purpose—is what Andrea describes as the most significant moment of her career. And also the reason why every morning she asks her patients: how are you feeling today? What keeps her going No coffee, no complicated formulas. Andrea has two rituals: eating on time and getting eight hours of sleep when she can. Simple, human, honest. Because to take good care of others, you first have to take care of yourself. The future she imagines In ten years, she sees herself as a staff nurse at the IMSS, with a surgical specialty. The operating room attracts her: the precision, the concentration, that space where every second matters. She also imagines herself with a family, a dog, and the satisfaction of being able to tell her children: "we made it." Her advice for newcomers Don't give up, even if your path is different from others. You don't always progress at the same pace, and that's okay. If you persist in what you truly want, it will come. Things happen when they are meant to happen — and sometimes what seems like an obstacle is exactly the lesson you needed. Nursing IMSS Child Health Vocation Real Stories

Dr. Emilio Durán could have continued his career in Europe, where for years he specialized in researching rare carcinomas, contributing his knowledge to important advances in oncology. However, when his father died from a late diagnosis of stomach cancer, he made a decision that would change the course of his life and, in a way, the destiny of many young doctors in Mexico. “In Mexico there was no shortage of doctors, there was a lack of clinical training with sound judgment, a lack of a critical perspective that went beyond the symptoms, that understood the patient's complete context,” Emilio reflects. Back in Monterrey, he became a professor and head of the pathology lab at a renowned university. He didn't just teach his students how to identify abnormal cells under the microscope; he instilled in them the importance of "reading" the story each altered cell tells. He carefully preserves samples from emblematic cases: an osteosarcoma that was misdiagnosed for years as a simple bone infection, or the childhood leukemia mistaken for anemia, which cost a child his life due to the lack of a timely and accurate diagnosis. “Every mistake understood here means one less death outside,” he repeats with conviction. For Emilio, learning shouldn't be theoretical or isolated; he dedicates extra hours simulating clinical cases where he introduces human and social elements that often go unnoticed: the patient's social profile, habits, cultural beliefs, and communication barriers that influence diagnosis and treatment. But his most important lesson is not to provide easy answers, but to sow seeds of curiosity and questioning. He demands that his students not settle for a quick conclusion, but rather formulate profound and empathetic questions that bring them closer to the patient's reality. For Dr. Durán, training doctors goes beyond transmitting scientific knowledge. It is a commitment to ethical and human responsibility. He firmly believes that science that does not transform those who practice it cannot truly save those who need it. In that sense, his work is a constant invitation to reflect, to question one's own certainties, and to understand that every diagnosis is, in essence, a person's life at stake.

When I received my social service assignment letter, I stared at the town's name for several seconds. I'd never heard of it. I Googled it, but it wasn't even on the map. When I arrived, I understood why. The road was a dirt track with endless curves. The clinic had an old desk, a couple of plastic chairs, and a box of expired medications. The bathroom was a hole in the floor. I slept on a cot behind the office. It was raining inside. The power kept going out. There was no cell service. For the first few days, no one came. Then a woman arrived with two children suffering from scabies. I sat on the floor to treat them. I asked her for help making soap with ash and salt. The next day, she brought her sister. The following week, the entire community came. I learned to check pregnancies with abdominal palpation, to improvise treatments when there was nothing but aspirin, to write prescriptions by hand on napkins. One day, an old woman told me while I was treating an infected wound: “We don’t need know-it-all doctors here, we need doctors who will stay.” At the end of the year, it was hard to leave. I had learned more medicine than in any hospital. But above all, I understood that practicing medicine is not just about following protocols: It's about adapting, observing, speaking calmly, and also healing through presence.

When I met Isabel, I was at one of those stages where you question whether it's worth continuing your research. I had spent more than 10 years studying patterns of hereditary dementia in Mexican families, compiling medical histories that many dismissed as "anecdotes with no future." Isabel was 42 years old. Her mother had died at 50, her grandmother at 54, and her older sister was already beginning to slip away, lost in thought. I brought her to my office after analyzing a family tree I drew on a piece of recycled paper. She arrived alone. She ordered a coffee before we spoke. During the interview, I was struck by her clarity. She knew what probably awaited her, but she didn't come seeking comfort. “Doctor, I don’t want to avoid it. I want to understand it. Not for myself, but for my daughter.” She agreed to genetic testing, cognitive studies, even quarterly follow-up sessions. She never missed one. One day she arrived with a notebook where she had written down everything she wanted her daughter to know if she started to forget. I, who had read hundreds of articles on biomarkers, found myself copying his sentences more carefully than any study. He asked me to keep his notebook if one day he could no longer write. Isabel is not yet showing any clinical symptoms. But her case allowed us to identify a genetic mutation that, over time, has become the basis for a national study. I've handled dozens of cases since then. But I see them all with Isabel's voice in my memory. From that experience, I understood that often the greatest act of love is not seeking to save oneself, but rather to shine a light so that others don't stumble in the darkness. And that's something we all understand, doctors or not.

My name is Laura, and I'm a social worker at a psychiatric hospital in central Mexico. My work isn't about scalpels or prescriptions, but about records, family histories, and painful decisions. Miguel was 46 years old, diagnosed with schizophrenia at 19. He lived on the streets. He arrived malnourished, with infected wounds and severe episodes of delirium. No one claimed him. We admitted him under court order. I spent weeks looking for a relative. Calls, letters, civil registries. No one was looking for him. I spoke to him calmly every day. Sometimes he answered with nonsensical phrases, other times with a lucidity that hurt: “How much does it cost to forget someone, miss? Because mine were very cheap.” We managed to stabilize him with medication, and he started painting. He made geometric figures, windows, doors, keys. “I’m designing my way out,” he told me. One day he didn't wake up. Cardiac arrest in his sleep. Alone. I had to close his file without family contact. It was a thin folder. It hurt. The only thing on it was a drawing: an open red door. I scanned it. I saved it. I don't know if it was my duty or my need. I understood that sometimes medical records don't tell the essential story: that someone was, existed, and deserved to be seen. My work doesn't end with documents or medicine; it's also about recognizing human dignity, even when the world seems to forget it.

My name is Álvaro Reza. I’m a third-year pediatric resident. Matías was one of the patients who left the deepest mark on me. He was nine years old and had acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He always carried a red backpack filled with crayons and drawings he made while waiting for treatment. The first day I met him, he said, “If you’re going to give me a shot, at least tell me a joke.” I made an effort to learn a new joke every day. While I checked his blood counts, he drew doctors with capes and dinosaurs in the hospital. He liked to paint his chemotherapy as a “magic potion.” Over time, his body weakened. He lost weight, appetite, and energy. Still, he never stopped drawing. One day, he asked me to explain how the heart works. He drew a huge heart with cables connecting it to mine. He gave it to me. “If one day I’m gone, I want this heart to keep beating for me,” he said. On June 6, Matías passed away. I was there. His mother hugged me and gave me his last drawing: himself in a spaceship wearing a white coat. I still keep it. Whenever I feel frustrated, I look at it. It reminds me that even when we can’t save someone, we can always accompany them—and that also heals.