I spent years practicing medicine, then years building technology, and eventually realized I needed both to do the work I actually care about.
I started my career as a biomedical engineer, driven by curiosity and the desire to build. Over time, I realized something that shaped everything: a lot of what I was working on in the early 2000s might not reach people in my lifetime. I didn’t want impact to be theoretical. I wanted it to be tangible.
I practiced medicine for a decade, and it gave me what engineering alone couldn’t: proximity. Real human stakes. Real tradeoffs. And a deep respect for what it means to be present with people over time.
Through every chapter — success, stress, building, rebuilding — what grounded me most was seeing how much of my strength came from culture, family, and the support systems around me. I’ve also faced my own blockers along the way: in growth, relationships, leadership, and the internal work it takes to keep expanding without losing yourself.
I write about a lot of this in my Insights — the lessons, the practices, the things I’m still figuring out. Because the goal isn’t just to build well. It’s to show up well — for the people around me, for the work ahead of me, and for the possibility that every person’s life can be a little better than it was yesterday.
One idea has become central to how I operate.
Life produces noise. Organizations produce noise. Even success produces noise. Entropy isn’t a flaw in the system — it is the system. And there’s a strange kind of beauty in learning how to live in harmony with it: reducing what doesn’t matter, protecting what does, and building structures that keep you steady even when the world isn’t.
That’s why I’m drawn to work that combines precision and meaning — technology that actually serves, and service that’s built to last.