Prologue: a life forged in resilience
If you had asked me in the early days of my life where I thought I would end up, my answer would have been straightforward—a career in medicine like my mother, a family of my own, and perhaps a path well-traveled. But life rarely follows the lines we draw for it. Instead, it takes unpredictable turns, tests our strength in ways we never expect, and reshapes our sense of who we are.
My journey is not a story of someone who had everything fall into place. It is a story of facing down doubt, not only from others but from within. It’s a story of family—of growing up in a large, blended household where identity was complex and love was often intertwined with sacrifice. It’s about learning that success is not defined by the absence of struggle but by the ability to keep moving forward when struggle seems insurmountable.
From engineering to medicine, from general surgery to critical care, and eventually anesthesiology, I’ve learned that the path forward is not always linear. I have navigated systemic challenges in residency, personal attacks on my character, and the physical and emotional tolls that come with balancing motherhood, career shifts, and health setbacks. But each time life forced me to pause or change direction, I learned something new about myself and what it means to persevere.
This is not just about the twists and turns of a career in medicine; it’s about resilience—the kind that keeps you grounded when everything around you feels unstable. It’s about trusting yourself, even when others doubt you, and knowing that every obstacle is an opportunity to rebuild stronger. Through all the challenges, one thing remains constant: the quiet, relentless determination to carve out a life that is meaningful, even when the odds are stacked against you.
This is my story. A life built on resilience, shaped by unexpected detours, and defined by an unwavering commitment to keep moving forward.
A family of many layers
I grew up in a house filled with voices. With nine children, six from my father’s first marriage and three that my mother and father had together, our home was always chaotic. My father, a proud Sri Lankan man, had met my mother, an Italian-Puerto Rican force of nature, in New York City. They blended two worlds together, and from that union, I was born into a family that felt like a world of its own.
My father’s layoff in 1986 marked a pivotal change for us. Before that, I don’t remember him being home much, but after he stopped working, his absence felt more profound. He became a ghost in our lives, not from overwork but from retreating into himself. We were left to depend entirely on my mother, who worked tirelessly as a physician to support us. She had always been the one to carry the weight of our family, both financially and emotionally, but now her role expanded to the point where it seemed like she was never around. The house became a landscape of benign neglect, as we learned to fend for ourselves in the heart of New York City.
In a family that large, survival wasn’t just about navigating the outside world—it was about holding your own inside the house. My older siblings had a knack for asserting their dominance in ways that felt relentless. I was often on the receiving end of their frustration, which manifested in beatings and teasing. Yet, looking back, I see these moments as formative. I learned early on how to be resilient, how to find my strength amidst the chaos, and how to be resourceful when the people who were supposed to protect me weren’t around.
That sense of resilience became my guide through the layers of my family dynamic. My father was rarely present, absorbed in his own world, and my mother, for all her love and dedication, was constantly working. There were days when I wondered what it would have been like to have a father who was engaged or a mother who was available. But those days of wondering were fleeting, replaced by the pressing need to navigate life with the tools I had been given. New York City can be unforgiving, but it is also a place that teaches you to survive, to adapt, and to thrive even when the odds are stacked against you.
In that bustling, crowded household, I learned that family is not always a source of comfort—it’s often a source of challenge. But in those challenges, I found my resilience. That resilience would serve me well as I embarked on the next chapter of my life, determined to forge my own path and rise above the limitations of my circumstances.
The ambition to succeed
As a child, I knew that education would be my escape. I was ambitious, driven, and perhaps a little defiant—qualities I knew I inherited from my mother. While she was constantly busy with work, she made it clear that education was the foundation of everything. I took that to heart.
After high school, I attended New York University, where I earned my first undergraduate degree in biology. But my ambition pushed me further, so I pursued a second degree in chemical engineering at Stevens Institute of Technology. The sciences fascinated me, and I had visions of making a name for myself in a field where women like me were few and far between.
I accepted a job with a large oil company after graduation, eager to apply my skills in the real world. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that engineering wasn’t what I had envisioned. My work took me to places like cement mills, chemical plants, and quarries—places where I was often the only woman, navigating environments that felt both foreign and isolating. In one particularly surreal moment, I found myself standing on a massive CAT haul truck in a quarry. As I looked up, I saw vultures circling overhead, as if waiting for me to slip and plummet to my death. I remember thinking, “This isn’t for me.” That moment crystallized what I had been feeling for months. I didn’t belong here.
I knew I needed to make a change, so I moved back home. I wasn’t sure what my next step would be, but I was determined to figure it out. In the meantime, I took a job as a sales rep for a pet food company. It was a far cry from chemical engineering, but it gave me time to regroup and plan my next move.
One day, while I was on the job, I walked into a veterinary office on Fifth Avenue in New York City. As I chatted with the veterinarian, he was impressed by how much I knew about the science behind the products I was selling. He even suggested that I consider veterinary school. I felt a surge of pride at his suggestion, but my confidence was quickly undercut by the female consultant veterinarian who had accompanied me that day. She was furious that I had garnered the attention of the male veterinarian and clearly didn’t think much of my intelligence. She laid into me, accusing me of being unprofessional for engaging in the conversation.
Her comments stung, and my anger flared. “You know what?” I said. “I’m not going to veterinary school. I’m applying to medical school.”
She sneered. “Who would let you in?”
That was the last straw. I shot back, “No, the question is, which one will I choose to go to?”
Her disbelief only fueled my determination. That moment, while difficult, was a turning point. I knew then that medicine was where I belonged. And not just anywhere—I would choose the path, and I would make my own way, no matter who doubted me. That fire led me to apply to medical school and, eventually, to confront challenges that would require every ounce of resilience I had developed over the years.
Medical school and uncertainty
Getting into medical school felt like a dream finally coming true, but the reality of the journey ahead was much more complicated. I had applied to multiple schools and received several acceptances. In the end, I chose my mother’s alma mater, a decision that seemed both fitting and daunting. There was comfort in following her path but also a weight that came with it—the pressure of expectations, both from myself and from those around me. My mother had paved the way for me, but I knew I wanted to carve out my own place in medicine, distinct from the sacrifices she had made and the long hours that had often kept her away from home.
As medical school progressed, I began to consider my specialty. I didn’t want to choose the same path as my mother, who had spent so much of her time working. Yet, I was drawn to surgery—its precision, the ability to fix problems with my hands, the immediacy of the results. Surgery seemed like a field where I could make a tangible difference, so I committed to pursuing it.
I matched into a general surgery residency and began my training with excitement. But it didn’t take long before that excitement began to unravel. I was one of three categorical surgical residents in the program, surrounded by five preliminary residents. Almost from the start, I felt the tension—a constant undercurrent of competition. It often felt like the preliminary residents were trying to sabotage me, jostling for the positions we held. The environment was intense, but I was prepared for that; what I wasn’t prepared for were the people I would encounter along the way.
There was one resident in particular who stood out, though not for the right reasons. From the moment I met him, I had doubts about whether he even belonged in the program. He didn’t seem to grasp the basics of medicine. I remember a moment that stood out—he couldn’t even manage a basic insulin regimen for a diabetic patient, something we had all mastered in medical school. I was frustrated, not only because of his incompetence but because I was told by the senior residents to teach him. I had joined the residency to learn, not to become a tutor for someone who, in my mind, shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
As it turned out, my instincts were right. Not long after, immigration officers arrived at the hospital and took him away in handcuffs. The man had falsified his documents. He wasn’t even a physician. The fact that I had been expected to teach someone who wasn’t legitimately qualified to be there was the final straw. It became clear to me within three months that this program, this specialty, was not the right fit for me. I had tried to find my place in surgery, but the environment was toxic, and I felt like I was constantly defending my position rather than growing as a physician. It was time for a change, and I knew I had to move quickly if I wanted to salvage my residency experience and my career.
Shifting gears
The decision to leave surgery was both a relief and a source of uncertainty. I knew I couldn’t stay in that environment, but I didn’t yet know what my next step would be. That’s when my mother, always attuned to my struggles, stepped in once again. She had been working with a family medicine resident who mentioned an open position in an OB/GYN residency program in South Jersey. My mother, sensing my turmoil, urged me to apply before she did. “This could be your chance to reset,” she said. It was exactly what I needed to hear.
I reached out and was soon scheduled for an interview with the chair of the department. He was a kind, approachable man, the polar opposite of the surgical residency environment I had just left. During the interview, I felt a sense of calm for the first time in months. He listened to my story, my reasons for leaving surgery, and didn’t judge. He simply welcomed me and assured me that I would be supported if I joined their program. After such a difficult start to my residency journey, this felt like a fresh beginning.
But not everything was as it seemed. While the chair was supportive, the program director was another story. From our very first interaction—an interview over the phone—I sensed a coldness in her tone, a terse nature that put me on edge. There was no warmth, no encouragement, just a series of pointed questions that left me feeling uneasy. Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to that red flag, but at the time, I was so eager to move forward that I pushed my reservations aside.
I began my OB/GYN residency, and for a while, things seemed to be improving. But then, life threw me another curveball—I found out I was pregnant. My mother, always straightforward, had told me in no uncertain terms that she wanted a grandchild. She wasn’t well and had told me that she felt like she didn’t have much time left. I wanted to give her that joy, but I also knew that being pregnant during residency would be difficult.
At first, I thought I could keep the pregnancy private, at least until I was ready to share the news. But that was quickly taken out of my hands. One of my colleagues, another resident, saw my name on an ultrasound list and decided to spread the word. In an instant, what should have been my private decision became fodder for gossip. I was humiliated. Not only did I have to navigate the physical demands of pregnancy during an already grueling residency, but now everyone knew my business, and it felt like my personal life was being scrutinized by the entire program.
Things only got worse when I went on maternity leave. On the first day of my leave, I received a call from the residency program asking when I would be back. I was barely through the door with my newborn, and already they were pressuring me to return. It was clear that my needs—physical, emotional, and personal—were secondary to the needs of the program. I ended up taking ten weeks of maternity leave, not only because I needed time with my baby but because I had suffered a breakdown of my episiotomy, which became infected and needed time to heal.
When I returned, things were different. During my annual review with the program director, she asked me pointed, personal questions about my classmates—questions that were inappropriate and invasive. I knew something wasn’t right. These weren’t just casual questions; they were invasive, and they made me deeply uncomfortable. I refused to answer, explaining that it wasn’t appropriate or professional to discuss my colleagues in such a way. The shift in her demeanor was immediate. Her eyes hardened, her tone sharpened, and she made it clear that she held the power to fire not only me but all of the residents if she saw fit. It was a threat, plain and simple, and I realized in that moment that staying in this program wasn’t just untenable—it was dangerous for my future.
I couldn’t thrive in an environment ruled by fear and manipulation. I knew I had to leave, but leaving wasn’t as simple as walking away. My program director’s grip on the residency was tight, and I wasn’t sure how to extract myself without her sabotaging my career. That’s when I heard about an open senior position at another hospital. The new program director, aware of the situation I was coming from, guided me through the delicate process of securing permission to leave. She told me exactly what to say, giving me the leverage I needed to make a clean exit.
But my old program director wasn’t going to let me go without a fight. Sensing that I was serious about leaving, she tried to manipulate me into staying. She offered me the role of academic chief, a position that would’ve seemed like an honor in any other circumstance. I knew better. This was no reward—it was a bribe, a way to keep me under her control. I couldn’t trust her, and I knew I couldn’t stay in a place that had already caused me so much harm. I knew I had to go, and so I made the leap, hoping that this new program would finally provide the stability and support I so desperately needed.
I left the program and started at the new hospital, determined to regain my footing. It wasn’t easy, balancing the demands of long hours with raising a family, but I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t experienced in years. The environment was different—less toxic, more supportive—and I began to rediscover the passion I had for medicine. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe. I worked hard, determined to prove that the struggles I had faced in my previous program hadn’t broken me. I had survived, and now I was ready to move forward.
The pursuit of critical care
As I settled into my new residency, I began to think more deeply about the kind of doctor I wanted to be. The years I had spent in Ob/Gyn had exposed me to a critical gap in care—there were few doctors equipped to handle the complexities of critically ill obstetric patients. This became especially clear during the H1N1 epidemic. We had pregnant women coming into the hospital, their bodies ravaged by the virus, and there was a palpable sense of uncertainty among the staff about how to manage their care. These women were in critical condition, and yet the intersection of obstetrics and critical care felt like uncharted territory for many of us.
That’s when it clicked for me. I wanted to be the doctor who could fill that gap. I wanted to combine my skills in OB/GYN with a deep understanding of critical care so that I could provide the kind of care these women desperately needed. It was a bold decision, but I knew it was the right one. I applied for a surgical critical care fellowship, eager to expand my knowledge and skill set.
The fellowship was intense, but I thrived in it. I found a deep sense of purpose in managing critically ill patients, and I knew that this was where I belonged. By the time I finished my fellowship, I felt prepared to step into a role that combined both of my passions—OB/GYN and critical care. I was offered a job at the hospital where I had trained, and everything seemed to be falling into place.
But just as quickly as the offer had come, it was rescinded. No explanation was given, but I had my suspicions. It wasn’t the first time I had encountered obstacles that seemed to come out of nowhere, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that my old program director had something to do with it. Her influence still loomed over my career, and it was clear that someone had poisoned the well. I felt devastated—after all the hard work, all the sacrifices, I was once again left scrambling for a foothold.
Despite the setback, I refused to give up. I began searching for other job opportunities, hoping to find a position that would allow me to combine my expertise in both OB/GYN and critical care. But it wasn’t easy. There weren’t many jobs that fit my unique skill set, and the shadow of my former program director seemed to follow me wherever I went. Doors that had once been open were now firmly shut, and I found myself wondering if I would ever be able to escape her reach.
Still, I pressed on, determined to carve out a place for myself in this field. I called an FQHC (Federally Qualified Health Center) near me, hoping to find a position that would allow me to continue practicing while admitting patients to the hospital. But there was one problem—the hospital was the same one where my old program director, now chair of the department, held sway. I explained my fears to the director at the FQHC, worried that she would continue to make my life difficult. He reassured me, telling me that he would be my boss and that she would have no say in my career.
It wasn’t the perfect solution, but it was a step forward. I had come too far to let anyone stand in my way now. I had a family to support and school loans to pay back—and ultimately it was about providing the care that too many women had been denied. It was about filling a void in the medical field and standing up for what I believed in, no matter who tried to stop me.
Facing adversity
Working at the FQHC was supposed to be a fresh start, but it was impossible to shake the lingering anxiety that my former program director’s shadow would follow me. The director at the FQHC had been reassuring—he promised that he would be my boss and that she would have no influence over my career. But I knew better than to believe that the past wouldn’t find a way to intrude.
The early days at the FQHC were busy but fulfilling. I was serving an underserved population, providing essential care to those who needed it most. It was rewarding work, yet I couldn’t fully relax. The hospital where I admitted patients was the same one where my old program director was now the chair of the department, and her presence loomed over every shift I worked there. I knew she hadn’t forgotten about me, and I was right.
It wasn’t long before I started hearing whispers—stories circulating among staff about my “wrongdoings.” It was subtle at first, but the tension grew. Then, I was brought before a hospital review panel. The experience felt like a witch hunt from the start. The panel had compiled a list of supposed mistakes I had made, small details blown out of proportion, all designed to paint me in the worst possible light. I was furious but also deeply anxious. My hospital privileges were at stake, and without them, my career could be over.
One particular case, they honed in on a C-section I had offered a patient, a decision that was completely appropriate under the circumstances. Yet here I was, sitting in front of a group of doctors who seemed determined to undermine my clinical judgment. As they drilled me with questions, one doctor finally stood up, visibly frustrated. “This is a witch hunt,” he said, slamming his papers on the table before storming out. In that moment, I felt a flicker of validation—someone else saw what was happening.
But that didn’t change the fact that I was being targeted. My former program director was behind this, of that I had no doubt. She was building a case to have my hospital privileges revoked, and if she succeeded, it would be the end of my practice. I hired an attorney, determined to fight back. My career and livelihood were on the line, and I wasn’t about to let her win. But even with legal support, the situation was bleak. Chairs wield power that goes way beyond normal legal boundaries. My lawyer advised me to start looking for a new job, somewhere far from the reach of my former program director. He knew, as I did, that staying in the same system would only bring more of the same problems.
I asked for an out from my restrictive covenant, hoping to escape the suffocating environment. Fortunately, I was able to find a job in the same city at a Catholic hospital. Unlike my previous experience, the physicians there didn’t buy into the rumors. They knew my former program director, and they didn’t trust her vendetta against me. Still, it was a tenuous time. Everywhere else I applied, someone was calling ahead and warning them about me. Each rejection felt like another door closing in my face, and the reality of how deeply she had damaged my reputation weighed heavily on me.
Despite all of this, I kept going. I wasn’t about to let her destroy what I had worked so hard to build. But it was clear that I needed to find a new path—one where she couldn’t touch me anymore. That path was about to appear in the most unexpected way.
An unexpected opportunity
One afternoon, while working a per diem shift at the hospital where I had completed my OB/GYN residency, I ran into an old anesthesiologist friend. We hadn’t seen each other in years. As we caught up, she asked me how my work in critical care was going. I hesitated for a moment before telling her the truth—how I had struggled to find a job, how the program director from my past had poisoned the waters for me, and how I was still navigating the fallout.
She listened carefully, and then she said something I hadn’t expected: “Why don’t you apply for anesthesiology? I’m the program director now, and I think you’d be great at it.”
The suggestion caught me off guard. Anesthesiology? I had never considered it before, but the more she talked, the more it made sense. Anesthesia was a specialty that blended hands-on patient care with critical thinking, and it offered the kind of stability that I needed. Plus, it would take me out of the direct line of fire from my former program director’s reach. I felt a glimmer of hope, but I was also cautious. Switching specialties would mean starting over—again. It would be a financial hit, a major shift in my career trajectory, and it would affect my family. I had to think carefully.
That evening, I talked with my husband about the opportunity. I was worried about taking such a big risk—especially the salary cut I would face as a resident again. But my husband, as always, was supportive. “If it will make you happy and take you away from all this stress, we’ll make it work,” he said. His words reassured me, and I knew that with his support, I could make the leap.
I applied to the program, but there was still one catch—I had to go through the Match. Even though my friend was the program director, she couldn’t guarantee me a spot. I would have to compete like any other candidate. It was a humbling experience, but I trusted that if it was meant to be, it would work out.
When Match Day came, I was thrilled to find out that I had secured a spot in anesthesiology. It was the beginning of a new chapter—one where I could finally move forward without the constant threat of my past hanging over me. I knew that starting over wouldn’t be easy, but for the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful.
My first day in the anesthesiology residency, however, didn’t go as planned. I tripped over a chair in the resident call room and injured my knee. It was a painful reminder that life never unfolds the way you expect. At first, I tried to push through the pain, telling myself it was just a small setback. But the pain persisted, and over the next few weeks, it became clear that this was more than just a minor injury.
I finally went to see a doctor, and the news wasn’t good. The MRI revealed a torn ACL and medial meniscus, and I would need surgery to repair it. As the doctor delivered the diagnosis, I broke down in tears. I had only just started this new chapter of my career, and already I was facing a significant obstacle. Surgery would take me out of work for months, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was once again falling behind. This wasn’t in my plan, but I had no choice but to deal with it.
The injury sidelined me, but the pain and exhaustion made it difficult to focus, and I fell behind in my studies. The demands of residency, combined with the physical pain and the responsibilities of raising three children, left me feeling overwhelmed. When the time came to take my in-service exam, I knew I wasn’t prepared, but I did the best I could. The results were devastating—I had bombed the exam, and soon after, I was placed on academic probation. It felt like a personal failure, like all the setbacks I had faced were finally catching up to me.
Being on probation was a heavy burden. I felt like I had let everyone down—my family, my colleagues, and most of all, myself. But instead of giving in to the despair, I used it as motivation. I didn’t give up. During my three months of medical leave, I threw myself into studying, determined to pass the first part of my anesthesiology boards. When I finally sat for the exam, I passed. It was a victory, a reminder that despite the setbacks, I could still succeed. Eventually, I came off probation, and as my residency progressed, I found my rhythm again.
Anesthesiology was challenging but rewarding. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was on a path that made sense for me, and I had the support of my family and colleagues to help me along the way.
Through it all, I learned that resilience isn’t about never falling down—it’s about getting back up, again and again, no matter how hard the fall. The experience taught me not only the importance of persistence but also the value of accepting help when it’s needed. I couldn’t have made it through those difficult months without the support of my family and colleagues, who reminded me that I wasn’t alone on this journey.
Thriving through the pandemic
Just as I was finding my footing again, the world changed. The COVID-19 pandemic hit, and suddenly, the final year of my anesthesiology residency looked very different than what I had imagined. Hospitals were overwhelmed, and anesthesiologists, like so many other health care professionals, were thrust into the frontlines of a global crisis.
The pressure was immense. Each day felt like walking into a war zone—patients were critically ill, ventilators were in short supply, and the fear of contracting the virus ourselves was always present. Despite the chaos, I found purpose in the work. The skills I had honed throughout my residency were now being put to the ultimate test, and I knew that what we were doing mattered. We were saving lives, even if it didn’t always feel that way in the moment.
But the pandemic also brought new challenges. My career prospects shifted dramatically. I had secured a job offer, but due to the economic strain brought on by the pandemic, the offer was rescinded. Once again, I found myself facing uncertainty about the future. After everything I had overcome, it felt like another cruel twist of fate. But in the midst of that uncertainty, an unexpected opportunity arose.
Luckily, the chair of my department, at the hospital where I was training heard about my situation and reached out to me. He asked if I would be interested in staying on as a generalist, helping to manage the influx of patients. While I hadn’t initially planned to stay, the offer came at the perfect time. It wasn’t the role I had envisioned for myself, but it was a lifeline in a time of crisis.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that behind the scenes, several female physicians had advocated for me to stay. There were male doctors who had initially opposed my hiring, but these women stood up for me, using their voices to ensure that I had the opportunity to continue my work at the hospital. Their support was a powerful reminder of the strength of community and the importance of standing together in solidarity.
Throughout the pandemic, I found new strength in resilience and in the relationships I had built along the way. The women who had supported me reminded me that none of us navigate this world alone—we rely on each other to lift us up, especially in the most challenging times. The pandemic tested us all in ways we couldn’t have imagined, but it also revealed the importance of compassion, both for ourselves and for those around us.
As the world slowly began to recover, so did I. My career had taken twists and turns I hadn’t expected, but through it all, I had found a renewed sense of purpose. I had learned that setbacks, no matter how daunting, are not the end of the story. They are simply part of the journey. And with each challenge, I had grown stronger, more determined, and more certain of who I was as both a doctor and a person.
The strength in perseverance
As I look back on the journey that brought me to where I am today, I see a story not defined by the challenges I faced but by the perseverance that carried me through them. The path I traveled was far from easy—full of unexpected twists, daunting obstacles, and moments of deep uncertainty. But with each setback, I found new strength, and with each challenge, I became more certain of who I was and what I was capable of.
Balancing a demanding career in medicine with the responsibilities of raising a family was never simple. There were days when the weight of it all felt overwhelming, and there were times when I questioned whether I could continue. But through it all, my family stood by me, and their support became the foundation that allowed me to keep moving forward. My children, my husband—they are the reason I fought so hard to succeed, and their love gave me the resilience to face every challenge.
Now, as an academic anesthesiologist, I have found a place where I can not only thrive but also give back. I mentor residents and students, helping them navigate their own journeys through medicine, just as I once did. Every day, I am reminded of how far I’ve come—from the struggles of my early residency years to the triumph of overcoming adversity. My work is fulfilling, my family is my greatest joy, and my life in the suburbs provides a sense of peace and balance that I once thought was out of reach.
There’s a certain irony in knowing that my success is the greatest retribution I could have ever achieved against my first program director. She tried to tear me down, to sabotage my career at every turn, but in the end, I rose above it. I didn’t need to fight her with bitterness or resentment. Instead, I chose to channel my energy into becoming the best physician and individual I could be. And that, in itself, is the sweetest victory.
Perseverance isn’t about never encountering hardship—it’s about learning to rise after every fall, to keep going when the path ahead is unclear, and to trust that with enough determination, you will find your way. Every challenge I faced along the way has shaped me into the physician I am today—stronger, wiser, and more compassionate. I now understand that those challenges were not just obstacles; they were opportunities for growth.
As I move forward in my career and my life, I carry with me the lessons of resilience and the unwavering belief that success is not measured by the absence of failure but by the courage to keep going, no matter what. And now, I stand in a place of fulfillment, knowing that I have created a life and career that I am proud of, surrounded by the people who matter most.
This journey was never easy, but it was always worth it. And for that, I am deeply grateful.
Adrienne Ligouri is an obstetrician-gynecologist.
