For most of my life, I lived and breathed achievements and accolades. I had the education and the impressive resume that earned approving nods whenever I mentioned my profession. But underneath all of that, I'd quietly stopped recognizing my own life. You may know the feeling. It's living on autopilot, going from one thing to the next, not even pausing to ask whether any of it aligns with your purpose.

The official version goes like this: I'm a dual-board-certified pediatric dentist and dental anesthesiologist. I've spent over a decade caring for kiddos during some of the most overwhelming moments of their young lives - the kind of work that asks you to be the calmest person in the room and put everyone else first. I loved it, and I was good at it. But being the steady one for everyone else has a sneaky way of teaching you to stop checking in on yourself.

A few years ago, something in my work shifted. A path I'd wanted badly turned out to be wrong for me, and for a while I spiraled, wondering what was wrong with me for not being more grateful. What I eventually found my way to is something I now say to others: growth starts the day you give yourself enough grace to ask whether your life still feels like yours.

That season taught me that a thriving life isn't something you stumble into; it's something you choose, and then choose again the next day. Most of us don't decide to drift. We make a hundred reasonable choices for everyone but ourselves until the drift becomes the destination. The way back starts with taking our own vital signs again: our emotional pulse, our self-worth, whether our days match what we say matters most.

These days, that thread runs through everything I do. I still practice clinically, with a renewed love for the field. I lecture dentists and residents on sedation and emergency preparedness, write a newsletter for anyone craving a slower life, and speak to the high-achievers and healthcare workers who hold everyone else together. I'm there not because I've figured it all out, but because for every lesson I teach, I'm often still a student of it.

When I'm not working, you'll likely find me reading with a matcha latte, riding my Peloton, or unsuccessfully attempting to beat my husband at chess. I love vulnerable conversations, odd numbers, and I will defend pineapple on pizza to anyone brave enough to bring it up. Mostly, though, I'm just someone trying to live with intention and make the world a little bit brighter.

So let me leave you with the question I keep coming back to: who were you before you lost yourself? And what might it look like to start finding your way back?