Over the next two weeks, I’d like to share a reflection that has shaped the way I view workers’ compensation. In Part 1, I share my own journey from measuring success by closed claims to understanding that every claim represents a human life. Next week, in Part 2, I’ll explore what research tells us about recovery and how a Worker Recovery mindset can improve outcomes for everyone involved.
“I am not an elephant. I am not an animal. I am a human being. I am a man.”
When John Merrick utters these unforgettable words in The Elephant Man, he isn’t asking for sympathy.
He’s asking to be seen. Not as a spectacle. Not as a diagnosis. Not as an inconvenience.
Simply as a human being.
Those words have stayed with me for years, and they challenge me in a deeply personal way.
I have a confession to make.
When I first entered the workers’ compensation profession as a young claims adjuster, I often viewed claims handling as a competition. I measured success by closing files, winning disputes, and saving dollars. Every favorable outcome felt like a victory. Every compliment from a supervisor validated that I was doing my job well.
As I write those words today, I want to hide beneath the Elephant Man’s hood, not because of how the world sees me, but because I am humbled by how I once saw the world.
Because that isn’t who I am. And thankfully, it isn’t who I became.
Experience has a remarkable way of changing our definition of success.
Over the course of more than three decades in workers’ compensation, I witnessed thousands of injured employees and their families navigating some of the most difficult moments of their lives. I learned that behind every claim number was a story I couldn’t see. Behind every dispute was a person carrying fears that never appeared in the claim file. Behind every delayed return to work was a family trying to hold life together.
The day I retired from The University of Texas System, as I crossed the threshold and walked out of the building for the final time, I wasn’t proud of the dollars I had saved or the disputes I had won.
I was proud that somewhere along the journey, my definition of success had changed.
Success had become helping people recover. Success had become listening before deciding. Success had become leading with empathy and creating a psychologically safe environment for people to be heard.
That lesson continues to deepen through my work with Kids’ Chance of Texas.
I’ve had the privilege of meeting families whose lives have been forever changed by catastrophic workplace injuries and fatalities. I’ve seen spouses suddenly carrying the weight of an entire household. I’ve watched children quietly wonder whether college was still possible after a parent was killed or permanently disabled at work.
Then comes the moment that changes everything.
They hear one simple word.
“Yes.”
Yes, you’ve been awarded a scholarship. In an instant, tears replace uncertainty. Hope replaces fear. A future that seemed to be slipping away suddenly feels possible again.
Those moments remind me that workers’ compensation has never been about claims. It has always been about people. Perhaps that’s why wonder what an injured worker might say if they could borrow John Merrick’s words.
“I am not a number. I am not a claim. I am a human being. A human being who needs help.”
Perhaps those words should be printed on every claim file, every adjuster’s desktop, every employer’s first report of injury, and every workers’ compensation computer screen. Because somewhere along the way, many claims stop being about people. They become events.
Tasks, workflows. diary notes, reserve reviews, medical authorizations, litigation, metrics, numbers. Every one of those activities is necessary to administer a workers’ compensation claim. But none of them is the reason workers’ compensation exists.
Workers’ compensation exists because someone was hurt. Someone whose life changed in an instant. Someone who needs help finding their way back.
Nobody Enters This Profession to Lose Their Empathy
Let’s be fair. Claims professionals don’t wake up in the morning determined to treat injured workers like claim numbers. Employers don’t intentionally forget that an employee is scared. Nurses don’t choose paperwork over compassion. Attorneys don’t begin their careers hoping conflict becomes the norm. Most people in this industry genuinely care.
The problem isn’t a lack of caring. The problem is volume. Too many files, too many emails, too many deadlines, too many phone calls, too many competing priorities.
When people are expected to manage workloads beyond what time reasonably allows, survival instincts take over. The focus naturally shifts from people to processes. Efficiency replaces connection. Checklists replace conversations. The goal becomes getting through today’s work rather than connecting with today’s people.
Psychologists describe this as depersonalization, one of the hallmarks of professional burnout. It isn’t intentional. It isn’t a character flaw. It’s a coping mechanism.
But while the system participant is coping with overwhelming demands, the injured worker experiences something very different. They experience silence, distance, and indifference.
To them, it feels like no one cares.
This conversation doesn’t end here. Next week, in Part 2, we’ll look at the science behind recovery and examine why the way we communicate, connect, and lead can have a measurable impact on both people and outcomes.
