Finding My Person (And My Future)

I’ve always known I was meant to be a mom. From the time I was little, I dreamed of having children, and that calling led me straight into pediatrics. After all, if you’re going to spend your days with kids, why not make it your career too? I just knew that when my turn finally came, I’d be a natural at this whole mothering thing.

But here’s the catch: between fourteen years of medical training (yes, fourteen!) and my laser-focused “life must follow the perfect plan” mentality, I somehow forgot to factor in finding an actual partner. Oops.

When I finally finished my training and moved home to start my practice, reality hit. I was ready to be a mom, but I was still very much single. So I did what any type-A person would do—I made dating into a project.

I gave myself exactly one year. I would say yes to every blind date, every setup, every opportunity that came my way. I practically took out a billboard advertising my availability. The plan was simple: find someone wonderful, or freeze my eggs and go it alone with IVF.

Now, let me be brutally honest—I hate dating. Like, really hate it. I had a mental checklist longer than a medical chart: He had to captivate me from date one (no participation trophies here). If I’d rather be home in my pajamas or out with my girlfriends than sit across from him at dinner, he was out. I wanted someone who would challenge me, make me laugh, and yes, ideally have a four-letter last name because mine was impossibly Polish and gave everyone pronunciation nightmares.

What followed was eleven months of dating disasters. Seriously, it was like a bad romantic comedy montage—awkward conversations, guys who didn’t make it past the appetizer course, and me wondering if I was being too picky or not picky enough. Nobody made it to date four. Not one person.

By month eleven, I had mentally started researching fertility clinics and picking out baby names for my future solo parenting adventure.

Then it happened.

One of my patient’s moms insisted she had “the perfect guy” for me. (Haven’t we all heard that before?) But something felt different this time. He was a professional, my age, and when I saw him I thought, “Okay, I can work with this. I actually love those chicken legs!”

Our first date was a baseball game, which already scored points for creativity. But then he suggested something that should have terrified me: a thirteen-mile hike. Thirteen miles! On our second date!

Here’s the thing—we talked the entire way up that mountain and the entire way back down. Six hours of conversation that flowed like we’d known each other for years. I even sprained my ankle on the way down, but did I mention it? Absolutely not. I was determined to prove I wasn’t some delicate flower who couldn’t handle a little adventure.

He didn’t kiss me at the end of that date, but he did ask me out again. And in that moment, something just clicked.

I called my mom as soon as I got home. “Mom, I think I found him. I think I found my person.”

Her response? “Oh honey, you’re just saying that because he has a four-letter last name!”

She wasn’t entirely wrong—his name was perfectly simple and pronounceable. But less than two years later, when I walked down the aisle toward him, I knew she’d been missing the bigger picture.

Marrying him was hands down the single best decision I’ve ever made. Sometimes waiting leads to thriving—even if the waiting involves a little pain along the way.