A Letter from the Ashes: Henry “Hank” Moorman and the Power of Expressive Writing
On heroism and vicarious resilience in medicine
On November 28, 1942, the Cocoanut Grove Nightclub in Boston caught fire, killing nearly 500 people in what remains one of the deadliest mass casualty events in American history. Among those who cared for the survivors at was a young Harvard medical student named Henry “Hank” Moorman.
After spending the day tending to burn victims and witnessing unimaginable suffering, Hank sat down and did something medical professionals have done for centuries—he wrote a letter home.
Dear Mom & Dad,
This fire they had in Boston was one of the grimmest things I’ve ever run up against...I saw one hundred — mostly young girls in formal attire stretched out on the floor of the morgue — It was pretty grim...I happened to be the only person around when one patient — a young girl — began to bleed from a tracheotomy... I managed to get the bandages off her neck and the bleeding vessel clamped but she aspirated a lot of blood... and expired. It was certainly a sobering experience and makes one wonder if you couldn’t have done something more to save her — I felt so inadequate.
…
Love,
Henry
Two years ago, while researching community trauma, a generous archivist at Harvard Medical School’s Countway Library shared Dr. Moorman’s letter with me. His handwriting was frenetic and barely legible in the opening paragraphs. A conservationist had lightly penciled the word “Iroquois” above the sentence, “It must have been something like the Iroquois fire that you went through Mom.” The 1903 Iroquois Theatre Fire, which claimed more than 600 lives, was the single deadliest building fire in US history, until the World Trade Center collapsed on September 11, 2001. Perhaps Henry saw something of his mother in the victims, who were young people, like himself, out reveling after the Boston College football game.
This missive, dashed off before an exhausted student went to bed, is a raw, unvarnished example of expressive writing in medicine, a deeply human response to suffering, loss, and moral injury. It shows us what it means to carry the burden of care and still find the courage to keep going.
It speaks to the comfort that writing can bring, too. Henry’s tone shifts on the second page. He tells his mother of a date he went on, “It was a very nice party - all sorts of doings and chamber music etc.” As a dutiful son should, he promised his mother he’d be home to visit soon. Then he signed off, “And now to bed - I have a couple of sick patients at the hospital that keep me busy.”
Voicing traumas, empathizing with others, sharing a joyful moment (with chamber music!), anticipating a loved one’s embrace, clearing the mind, filling the heart, fortifying the spirit. That’s what expressive writing did for Dr. Moorman.
Today, I have the privilege to share this letter with participants at the Consortium of Hospital-Affiliated Colleges and Universities (CHACU) Spring Conference at Clarkson College, where I’ve been invited to give the speak and lead a writing workshop. The conference theme, “Transforming Healthcare Education: Future Needs for a Healthier Workforce,” could not be more appropriate.
one of the grimmest things I’ve ever run up against...
Dr. Moorman’s words remind us that medical heroism is not just in skillful action but in moral reflection. Even in the face of overwhelming tragedy, doctors are not machines. They are moral agents, haunted and human. Through expressive writing, they can begin to process their experiences and share them with others, weaving a fabric of communal resilience.
We read this letter to commune with Dr. Moorman’s dedication and to honor the feelings he entrusted to paper. And we do so together, because resilience grows when it is witnessed.
At CHACU, participants will gather from across the country—each carrying their own burdens, leading their own programs, navigating their own challenges. But for a brief time, we’ll write, read, and reflect together. I pray that in this shared moment, we may be emboldened by one another’s stories. As difficult as these personal narratives are to encounter, they offer a hopeful glimmer of vicarious resilience—the strength that grows within us when we see others being strong.
And that, too, is how we transform healthcare.
Writing Prompts Inspired by Dr. Henry Moorman’s Letter
Bearing Witness to Resilience
Write about a time when you watched another healthcare professional—or student—act with compassion, skill, or courage in the face of suffering.
What did you witness?
How did it impact your understanding of healthcare or your own sense of professional identity?
What form of resilience did you see in them—and what did it awaken in you?
What strength did you borrow from them in that moment?
The Letter I Never Wrote
Write a letter (not to be sent) to someone in your life describing a difficult day in your professional experience—just as Hank wrote to his parents.
What did you see or experience that day?
What feelings have stayed with you?
What do you wish you could say about that experience that you haven’t yet shared?