Dear Phlebotomists,

It’s Thanksgiving this week, and as always it’s a time when gratitude and reflection are on the mind. So, for this blog post I would like to share my heartfelt thanks for you.

Not just for what you do—though that matters enormously. But for who you are. For showing up. For caring. For choosing a profession that demands technical excellence, emotional resilience, and constant presence with human suffering, often with little recognition or appreciation.

I’ve spent over 15 years in this field—first as a phlebotomist in emergency rooms and forensic settings, then an instructor, now as an educator and expert witness. And if I could go back and choose again, I’d choose phlebotomy every single time.

Not because it’s easy. It’s not.

Not because it’s well-paid or prestigious. It’s neither.

But because this work has taught me more about humanity, compassion, and resilience than any other profession could have. Because being present—even for just two minutes—in some of the most vulnerable, terrifying, painful moments of people’s lives is a privilege I don’t take lightly.

And because I’ve had the honor of working alongside, teaching, and learning from some of the most skilled, dedicated, and genuinely good people I’ve ever met. People like you. Not just the phlebotomists, but the teachers, managers, and mentors.

So this Thanksgiving, I want to acknowledge something that often goes unsaid: the extraordinary gifts you give every single day that no one thanks you for.

The Gifts You Give (That No One Sees)

You give accurate diagnoses.

Every time you collect a sample with proper technique, you’re starting the entire diagnostic process. When you prevent hemolysis, when you fill tubes in the correct order, when you mix anticoagulants properly, when you label accurately—you’re ensuring that the lab results are reliable. That the doctor’s diagnosis is based on good data. That the patient gets the right treatment.

No one sees this. No one thanks you for the perfect sample. But that perfect sample might be the reason someone gets the correct diagnosis instead of being sent home with a life-threatening condition undetected.

You prevent complications that never happen.

For every phlebotomy-related lawsuit I review as an expert witness, I think about the thousands—millions—of successful venipunctures that happened that same day. The ones where proper technique, anatomical knowledge, and careful skill prevented disaster.

You don’t get recognition for the complications that didn’t occur. No one hands out awards for “Successfully Drew Blood From the Antecubital Fossa Without Hitting the Median Nerve 500 Times This Year.”

But those prevention moments matter. Every patient who walks away without a hematoma, without nerve damage, without trauma—that’s your gift.

You give dignity in vulnerable moments.

When someone sits down in your chair, they’re trusting you with their body. They might be terrified of needles. They might have been stuck six times already today. They might be getting labs for a cancer diagnosis, a pregnancy, a mystery illness that’s stolen their quality of life.

And you treat them like a person. You explain what you’re doing. You ask about their preferences. You apologize when you cause discomfort. You use a gentle touch. You see them as human, not just an arm with veins.

No one’s measuring this on a performance metric. But patients remember it. They remember feeling cared for instead of processed.

You give calm in chaos.

When a patient is panicking, when a parent is more anxious than their child, when someone’s shaking so hard you can barely palpate a vein—you stay calm. You use a reassuring voice. You project confidence even when the situation is difficult.

Your composure becomes their anchor. Your steady hands and steady voice tell them they’re safe, even when everything else feels out of control.

You give the emotional labor no one talks about.

You absorb people’s fear. Their pain. Their stories. Their grief.

You’re drawing blood on someone who just found out their cancer is back. You’re collecting samples from a child who doesn’t understand why this hurts. You’re doing a blood alcohol level on someone who caused a fatal accident. You’re the phlebotomist in the ER at 2 AM when someone’s life is falling apart.

And you can’t talk about it. HIPAA means you carry these stories alone. Professionalism means you can’t cry in front of patients. The pace of healthcare means you move immediately to the next patient without processing what you just witnessed.

This emotional labor is exhausting. It’s real. And it matters. You create space for people’s emotions while holding your own. That’s not “just drawing blood.” That’s skilled emotional work that takes a toll.

You give professional excellence when no one’s watching.

You do it right even when you’re tired. Even when you’re the only one working and there’s a line of patients. Even when no one would know if you skipped a step.

You wash your hands between patients. You change gloves. You don’t reuse tourniquets. You follow proper order of draw. You label tubes at the bedside. You document accurately.

Not because someone’s standing over you making sure you comply. But because you know it matters. Because patients deserve your best work every single time.

You give mentorship and knowledge.

To the educators and managers reading this: you’re shaping the next generation. You’re passing on not just techniques, but values. You’re teaching students that excellence matters, that patients deserve dignity, that this work is meaningful.

To the experienced phlebotomists who train and mentor new hires: you’re doing unpaid teaching on top of your regular work. You’re patient with questions. You share tricks you’ve learned over years of practice. You model what good phlebotomy looks like.

To everyone who answers questions in online groups, who shares knowledge generously, who helps a struggling colleague: you’re elevating the entire profession.

The Work No One Sees

You show up on Thanksgiving. On Christmas. On overnight shifts when the rest of the world is sleeping. You miss family gatherings, school events, holiday dinners because patients need lab work drawn at 3 AM.

You come in when you’re exhausted. When your back hurts from standing all day. When you’re emotionally drained but there’s still a full schedule ahead of you.

You invest in your own education—paying for certifications, attending conferences, reading research, staying current with standards—often on your own time and your own dime.

You deal with patients who are rude, demanding, or treat you like you’re less-than because you’re “just” the phlebotomist. And you stay professional anyway.

You maintain perfectionism in a job where mistakes have consequences. Where one mislabeled tube could lead to a transfusion error. Where one contaminated blood culture could lead to unnecessary antibiotics. Where hitting a nerve could change someone’s life forever.

That pressure is constant. And you carry it with grace.

To Those Who Feel Unseen

I see you working the night shift, keeping labs running when most people are asleep.

I see you with the patient everyone else gave up on—the one with no visible veins, the one who’s been stuck eight times, the one everyone says is “impossible.” And I see you succeeding where others didn’t because you took the time, used your skill, treated them with patience.

I see you perfecting your technique even after ten, fifteen, twenty years in the field. You’re not coasting on experience—you’re still learning, still growing, still trying to be better.

I see you being kind when you’re exhausted. Explaining things clearly to the anxious patient even though you’ve already explained it five times today to five other anxious patients.

I see you caring when it would be easier not to. When you could just get the job done and move on, but instead you take an extra minute or two to make sure the patient feels comfortable, informed, respected.

I see you advocating for patients—speaking up when something isn’t right, questioning orders that don’t make sense, protecting people who can’t protect themselves.

I see you showing up for work with excellence even on the days when you wonder if any of it matters.

It matters. You matter.

Why I’m Grateful

I’m grateful that phlebotomy taught me to be present. To pay attention. To notice the trembling hands, the held breath, the patient who says they’re fine but isn’t.

I’m grateful for the privilege of being trusted with people’s bodies and their stories, even for just a few minutes.

I’m grateful for the colleagues who’ve taught me, challenged me, inspired me to be better at what I do.

I’m grateful for students who ask hard questions that make me think more deeply about why we do things the way we do.

I’m grateful for a profession that demands both technical excellence and human compassion—because that combination makes us better practitioners and better people.

I’m grateful that I get to advocate for this profession, to fight for proper training and recognition, to testify in court when standards aren’t followed, to write educational content that might prevent injuries and improve patient care.

And I’m grateful for you. For every manager, educator, and phlebotomist who does this work with skill, integrity, and heart.

This Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving, while you’re working (because someone has to), while you’re missing family dinners (because patients need care), while you’re drawing blood on people who’d rather be anywhere else (because healthcare doesn’t stop for holidays)—I want you to know:

You’re seen. Your work matters. Your skill matters. Your compassion matters.

Thank you for choosing this profession.

Thank you for staying when it gets hard.

Thank you for doing it right even when no one’s watching.

Thank you for being kind when kindness isn’t required.

Thank you for treating patients with dignity when they’re at their most vulnerable.

Thank you for being the kind of phlebotomist patients deserve.

This work isn’t easy. But it’s meaningful. And you make it look like both an art and a science.

So from one phlebotomist to another, from an educator who’s learned from you, from someone who’s grateful to share this profession with people like you:

Thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

With gratitude and respect,

Shanise Keith, CPT (NHA)
Director, Center for Phlebotomy Education

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To my fellow phlebotomists: What are you grateful for in this profession? What keeps you showing up even on the hard days? Any moments or memories that make this job worth it? Share in the comments—I’d love to hear your reflections this Thanksgiving.

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