I never imagined I would go into psychiatry.
Early in my medical training, I found myself unsettled by what I was seeing - not because the work lacked importance, but because the pace and structure of care felt misaligned with how I understood medicine, and with the kind of clinician I hoped to become.
When I was first exposed to the field during medical school, I was, frankly, turned off by it. I remember an outpatient psychiatry rotation where patients were booked back-to-back, many waiting far longer than scheduled to see a single psychiatrist overwhelmed by paperwork. Most visits lasted fifteen minutes—perhaps twenty for a new evaluation.
She spoke about her recent diagnosis of breast cancer and how it had completely upended her life. Her story was heart-wrenching and hopeful at the same time. Yet the space she was given to translate her inner emotional world into words—words that could never fully capture the complexity of her experience—was painfully brief. Her prior medications were reviewed. Symptoms were checked off on a sheet of paper. Questions were rushed. Eventually, she was asked to answer only “yes” or “no,” without room to elaborate or reflect.
This way of practicing medicine, unfortunately, is not unique to psychiatry. It exists across every specialty—cardiology, dermatology, surgery, oncology to name a few. Research has shown that breakdowns in the doctor-patient relationship—particularly when patients feel unheard or dismissed—are strongly associated with dissatisfaction and even medico-legal complaints. People seek care not only for expertise, but for understanding.
When medical encounters become narrowly structured and rigid, patients are left without the space to fully express themselves. And without that space, it becomes nearly impossible for a clinician to truly understand a person’s needs, values, and goals for treatment.
Despite feeling uneasy about that particular rotation—and about that style of care—I found myself drawn to something else entirely: the profound trust involved when someone shares their internal struggles. The privilege of sitting with another person as they try to make sense of their thoughts, emotions, fears, and hopes felt meaningful in a way I couldn’t ignore.
I realized that my discomfort wasn’t with psychiatry itself. It was with how it was being practiced.
During my residency training at Cambridge Health Alliance / Harvard Medical School, I was fortunate to learn from supervisors who valued depth, curiosity, and psychotherapy. We were taught not only how to prescribe medications, but how to listen—how to think about family systems, internal conflicts, motivation, cognition, behavior, and the emotional histories that shape who someone is. I had the opportunity to discuss complex clinical cases with mentors and then return to sessions able to explore emotional territories that patients themselves had never felt safe enough to enter.
Later, during my training at Columbia University, I worked in consultation-liaison psychiatry, embedded within multiple medical and surgical services. In this role, psychiatry existed at the intersection of medicine, ethics, and humanity. I sat with patients and families facing profoundly complex decisions—end-of-life care, questions of capacity, the ethics of refusing treatment, and moments where there were no clear “right” answers, only deeply personal ones.
Those experiences reinforced something essential: that good psychiatric care is not just about diagnosis or intervention. It is about helping people think, feel, and decide during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives.
Alongside my clinical work, I also had the privilege of teaching and supervising residents and medical students. Working with trainees—helping them slow down, tolerate uncertainty, and learn how to truly listen—further shaped how I understand this field. Teaching forced me to articulate not just what I do, but why I do it, and to model a kind of psychiatry that values presence as much as expertise.
Throughout my training and career, I’ve worked with individuals across a wide range of settings and circumstances: people living with severe mental illness, patients in under-resourced community clinics, college students navigating identity and pressure, individuals receiving embedded mental health care in primary care settings, professionals working in high-intensity environments such as finance and medicine, and individuals with significant financial resources.
Across all of these environments, one truth has remained constant: everyone wants to be heard—and to feel heard.
That understanding is what ultimately inspired my work at Arium Psychiatry.
I intentionally created a space where patients know they will have time, attention, and presence. Whether meeting in person or virtually, my goal is for each individual to feel that their story matters—that their experiences, fears, and hopes are being genuinely witnessed, not rushed or reduced to a checklist.
While I never could have seen myself practicing psychiatry the way I first encountered it as a medical student, I feel deeply grateful to practice it now in a way that aligns with my values. In my private practice, patients have the opportunity to be open, honest, and real—knowing they are met with thoughtful, unrushed care designed to help them navigate complexity and move toward a fuller, freer version of themselves.
If any part of this resonates—if you’ve ever felt rushed, unheard, or reduced to symptoms—you’re welcome to explore my practice further or reach out. Sometimes the first step is simply finding a space where there’s room to think, feel, and speak openly.
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