There's a GAP between Public and Private health in the UK. It needs to be filled, filled with CARE.

Health Care in the UK: The Decline of Trust

I wasn’t born in the UK, and where I come from, relying on public healthcare often means leaving with more problems than you went in with. So, imagine my amazement when I moved to the UK in 2011 and found that hurting yourself didn’t have to mean financial ruin. You could walk into A&E, get seen within hours, and receive what seemed like world-class care—all without an enormous bill at the end. It was almost unbelievable. Even if not technically free, it was as close to free as you could get compared to private healthcare in most countries. Back then, the NHS was working, and it was beautiful.

But that was 2011. Now? It’s a different story.

The slow decline of the NHS crept in over the years. Before COVID, it was easy to ignore, but after? It’s impossible to miss. Hospitals, even the best ones, are drowning. Even private hospitals are struggling. The system is showing cracks everywhere.

Recently, I needed urgent care for something that wasn’t a known issue. The kind of thing that gnaws at you, makes you anxious, and keeps you awake at night. I called NHS 111, and for a brief moment, I felt reassured. The person on the phone was kind, caring, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was in good hands. She sent me to A&E, and I got there within an hour. I was seen relatively quickly, which in my state felt like a small victory. So far, so good. But it didn’t last.

Here’s where it started to unravel. By the time I reached the hospital, I’d explained my symptoms three times already. Then, I had to explain them again to the nurse at reception. Then to another nurse, then to a doctor, and then again to another doctor. By the sixth time, I was repeating my story like a broken record. It wasn’t just annoying; it was exhausting. How could I be telling the same thing over and over when everything was being written into an online system? What was the point?

Finally, after several hours, the doctor told me to follow up with my GP on Monday, and I left with a bit of hope. Maybe I’d get some answers. But when I called my GP, they had no idea what was going on. I had to start the entire process from scratch. By now, I was more anxious, more stressed, and less confident in a system I had once trusted.

A friend suggested I go private, and in my desperation, I did. At first, it felt like a relief. I could get blood tests in a few hours instead of waiting weeks. But then came the realization: while the private sector was faster, it lacked heart. The doctors were competent, sure, but I was just another patient. A blood test was ￡200—not terrible—but a 15-minute phone consultation? ￡150. The whole experience felt like a transaction. I didn’t feel cared for; I felt processed. Even a complimentary bottle of water wasn’t really complimentary. It appeared on my bill alongside a host of other add-ons. That moment soured everything. I found myself missing the NHS—not the system, but the people. The nurses who joke with you, comfort you, who make you forget for a moment that you're even sick.

The private sector was efficient, but it wasn’t human.

That’s when it hit me: healthcare isn’t just about competence. It’s about feeling cared for. Feeling safe. And in both systems—public and private—that feeling is disappearing. There’s a gap between the two, a middle ground that doesn’t seem to exist. Now, I’ve started using AI like ChatGPT to help me understand my medical history and break down test results, because when I finally see a doctor, I only have minutes to spare. The AI feels more human, more caring, than a ￡150 consultation with someone who sees you as a number on a bill. It’s a sad state of affairs.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to replace doctors with machines. If anything, we need more doctors involved. We need competence, but we also need something far more powerful—the placebo effect. The way we feel about our care can determine how we feel about our health. A tidy office, a smile, or a simple gesture like offering a bottle of water—these little things make us feel cared for. They make us believe that we matter.

I always wondered how things like witchcraft or magic made sense to people. But now I get it. It’s not just about the treatment; it’s about the confidence you feel in the person taking care of you. When that confidence is there, it calms you. When it’s not, it makes everything worse, even if nothing has physically changed.

Healthcare is broken—not just in the UK, but everywhere. We need a middle ground, a balance between the speed of technology and the care of human touch. Maybe AI can handle the data, the tests, the technicalities. But we still need doctors to make us feel human, to make us feel safe.

Because in the end, care isn’t just about treatment. It’s about trust. And trust is the one thing that can’t be faked.

Trust built society.

Part 2 coming soon...