I grew up in the small town of Caledonia, NY, where life was simple, the community was close, and my adult role models worked two jobs to make ends meet. My world revolved around sports, family, and the familiar rhythms of small-town life. Medicine wasn’t on my radar at all.

Everything changed the summer my grandmother had a stroke. One moment she was the steady center of our family; the next, she was fighting to regain her independence. I watched my grandfather learn to cook her meals and help her through everyday tasks. I watched my mother’s worry stretch across late nights and early mornings. I saw firsthand how one event—one moment inside the body—could ripple through an entire family.

That experience changed the way I saw the world.

When I returned to college that fall, a mentor introduced me to exercise physiology, and suddenly the world opened in a new way. I found myself fascinated with understanding how the body works—how it breaks, how it heals, and how we might protect the people we love from moments like the one that changed my family.

One night, my teammates were waiting for me to go out, and I told them I’d meet them in thirty minutes when I finished up at the library. I opened my textbook to a chapter on the human heart—and hours disappeared. I sat alone in the library, reading page after page about a single heartbeat, amazed by the beauty and complexity of something we rarely think about. While my friends never let me live it down, I realized that for the first time, learning didn’t feel like something I had to do. It was something I couldn’t get enough of. That’s when I knew I wanted to go to medical school.

I accepted an offer at a school in Arizona. But shortly after when I visited the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences in Bethesda—just weeks after 9/11—I felt something click into place. Service and medicine—two ideas bigger than myself—had collided. As I walked out of that building, I knew: This is where I’m meant to be. I hadn’t even been accepted yet. I just knew it was the place for me. So I changed course—and found my path.

For more than two decades, I practiced as both a physician and educator, guiding residents, leading a sports medicine fellowship, and caring for service members and their families. Teaching became a core part of who I am. I believe medicine should be understood, not just received—and that when patients truly understand their bodies, they gain agency, confidence, and hope.

 As my military retirement approached, many of my colleagues who were moonlighting or had already transitioned to civilian practice shared what they were experiencing. Appointment times were shrinking to ten minutes—sometimes five. Physicians were being rewarded for volume, referrals, and rushed decisions, not for time, connection, or proactive care. I watched good doctors burn out and patients fall through the cracks.

You cannot build a meaningful relationship in seven minutes.
You cannot change someone’s life when you barely have time to say hello.

And that’s why joining Athena Direct Primary Care feels like coming home to me.

Here, medicine returns to what it was meant to be: human, relational, and rooted in evidence-based care. I have the time to listen—to understand not just what’s happening in your body, but what’s happening in your life. I can teach, guide, and partner with you long before a crisis appears. I can help you take pro-active steps that support long-term health, rather than simply reacting when something goes wrong.

At Athena, hope isn’t an abstract idea—it’s a practical strategy. Understanding creates hope. And hope paired with knowledge creates actions that support a long and healthy life.

I became a doctor because I fell in love with understanding the human body. I stayed in medicine because I fell in love with the stories, struggles, and strengths of the people in front of me. And I joined Athena because this is where those two callings finally come together—where knowledge and connection work side by side to help you build a healthier, more hopeful future.