04/19/2026
There are people who love to build things. They build companies, portfolios, homes, systems. Some are drawn to the precision and pace of markets—the world of trading floors, quarterly earnings, and balance sheets. In a Wall Street kind of way, success is measured in numbers that move quickly and visibly. Profit and loss. Growth curves. Wins and losses tallied in real time.
There is something deeply admirable about that.
But for me, the most meaningful work has never been about building things.
It has always been about building people.
I didn’t realize that early on. Like most of us, I thought success would be tied to something tangible—titles, income, productivity. In medicine, that often translates to how many patients you see, how efficient your day is, how well you manage complexity. Those things matter.
But over time, something shifts.
You begin to see that the real impact is not in what you produce, but in who you help become something more.
There is nothing quite like it.
I’ve never been much of a gardener. I don’t have the patience for soil or seasons. But when it comes to people, something in me leans in. Helping someone grow—really grow—is different than fixing a problem or giving advice. It requires presence. It requires belief. Sometimes it requires stepping back when everything in you wants to step in.
It’s a long game.
You don’t always see the results right away. You plant something—a question, a bit of encouragement—and trust it will take root. And then, occasionally, you get to witness what comes from that.
Those moments stay with you.
I think about my son, Harrison. Watching him grow into the person he is becoming has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. Not because of the scores he shoots, but because of how he carries himself. The way he treats people. The way he handles disappointment and keeps moving forward.
This year, we trained for and ran the Austin Marathon together.
There’s something about sharing that kind of challenge that is hard to put into words. Early morning runs, long miles, conversations that only happen when you’re side by side for hours with nothing but time and effort between you. You watch your child push through fatigue, doubt, and discomfort—and you realize they are becoming something more right in front of you.
Crossing that finish line with him was not about the time.
It was about the journey.
Now he’s off to college.
There is pride in that, and something harder to name. A realization that a chapter is closing. That the daily opportunities to guide and shape are changing. You move from being in the middle of it to standing a bit further away, watching and trusting.
That’s part of building people too—knowing when to let them go.
And then there is Ella.
For years, my time with her was spent on the road—soccer tournaments across the country, early mornings, long drives, sideline conversations that mattered more than I realized at the time. Those were not just games. They were moments where resilience was built quietly.
She has always had a way of pushing forward.
Now she’s studying abroad in Australia, preparing for her MCATs, chasing a path that in many ways mirrors my own. It’s a different kind of pride with her. Less about letting go, and more about recognizing how much of her journey she built herself.
She spent time in my office as a medical assistant, seeing medicine not just as a profession, but as a relationship. Watching her interact with patients, you could see it—the beginnings of something deeper than knowledge. Presence. Empathy. Curiosity.
Those are the things you can’t teach in a textbook.
When I think about Ella, I don’t think about the destinations. I think about the foundation—the quiet confidence to step into new environments and find her footing.
That’s what building people looks like.
Louis is another example. Watching his journey—from working alongside us to becoming someone the team relied on—and now heading off to medical school. What mattered most was never the tasks he completed. It was who he became in the process. The confidence. The ownership. The sense of purpose.
And maybe a small part of what he carries forward will trace back to those moments.
That’s enough.
In medicine, we talk a lot about outcomes—lab values, blood pressure, imaging results. All important. But there is another layer that often goes unmeasured.
Who is this person becoming?
Do they feel seen? Do they believe they can move forward, even when things are uncertain?
We have the opportunity, every day, to influence that.
Not through grand gestures, but through small, consistent interactions. A question at the right time. A moment of listening. A bit of encouragement when someone struggles to see their own progress.
Those are the building blocks.
The same is true with friends, colleagues, anyone we cross paths with. We are constantly shaping the people around us through our attention and our expectations.
The question is whether we do it intentionally.
Because building people doesn’t happen by accident.
It requires us to slow down in a world that rewards speed. To look beyond what someone is doing and see who they might become. To invest without any guarantee of return.
On Wall Street, you can check your progress at the end of every day. The market closes, the numbers are there, the score is kept.
Building people is different.
There is no closing bell. No daily report. Sometimes you don’t see the impact for years.
And yet, when it shows itself—when a young man handles adversity with grace, when a young woman finds her path across the world, when a colleague steps into leadership—it carries a weight no balance sheet ever could.
As I look around at this moment—with Harrison stepping into his next chapter, with Ella carving out hers across an ocean, with Louis beginning his own journey into medicine—I feel a deep sense of gratitude.
Not for what I’ve built.
But for who I’ve had the chance to help build.
Those are the things that make me proud to be me.
And they are what give me the clearest sense of purpose moving forward.
Because there will always be more people.
And for me, there is nothing better.
