In medicine and entrepreneurship, it’s easy to sprint from one milestone to the next without ever stopping to breathe. But this season, between patents, publications, and new speaking invitations, I’m learning that celebration and gratitude are forms of fuel—not distractions from the work.

As both a hospitalist and a birthing center medical director, I’ve seen the dangerous divide growing between hospitals and community birth settings. Mothers deserve safety and trust—not fear and fragmentation. It’s time to rebuild the bridge between midwives and medicine.

Medicine teaches us to pour from an empty cup, to save joy for later, and to equate exhaustion with purpose. But being a good doctor isn’t about self-sacrifice—it’s about remembering that caring for ourselves is part of caring for our patients.

But my bigger question, and it always seems to circle back to this, is Why can’t we as women give ourselves permission to do what we need to heal our bodies? We are EXHAUSTED. We just gave birth—sometimes in very traumatizing and physically invasive ways. When will we, American women as a culture, allow ourselves to take a break? Why won’t we give ourselves that permission?

I was working four days a week, leading a clinic, and carrying call—only to learn my male colleague was being offered $100,000 more for one extra day. For the first time in my career, I realized merit alone couldn’t protect me from the insidious reality of the gender pay gap in medicine.

I used to believe my worth was measured in test scores, titles, and perfectly dotted i’s. But what I’ve come to see is that my real legacy isn’t in accolades — it’s in the people I’ve nurtured along the way. Being called a “Residency Mom” reminded me that the truest success is leaving others stronger, braver, and more seen than they were before.

A former OB-GYN shares how outdated postpartum care nearly cost her career—and how new policy changes are finally reshaping maternal health. This powerful story highlights why the old six-week postpartum visit model fails families, how COVID opened the door to innovation, and how expanded postpartum coverage is transforming care. Discover why individualized, year-long postpartum support is the future of maternal medicine.

Why would someone risk their baby's life rather than deliver at a hospital? This appears to be a growing trend, and we're not asking the right questions about it.

Doctor Braden riding… a bike. Pretty literal. We know.

Looking back, I’m struck by how perfect my life looked on paper. Story of my life, really. I checked every box. I was the obvious choice: doctor, wife, mother, achiever. I don’t judge my younger self for that. That perfectionism served me well—until it didn’t.

Sitting in that therapist’s office, I was given something I didn’t know I was missing: permission to cry.

We’re fed this idea that exhaustion is the price of admission to motherhood. That stress is just a sign you care enough. That losing yourself is noble, even beautiful.

We don’t talk about the partner who stands at the edge of the bed, watching the person they love dissolve in front of them.

There’s a version of my life where I’m not a doctor.

Where I’m not here writing this.

Where I walked away before my career ever really began.

Let me start with this: most peple can make enough milk. Not everyone—but most.

So why do so many parents feel like their supply disappears overnight?

There is a silent epidemic in postpartum care that almost every parent feels—but few talk about out loud. It’s called Perceived Insufficient Milk Supply, or PIMS, and it’s one of the most common reasons people stop breastfeeding before they’re ready.