When I was young I kept moving my desk. The bedroom, the living room, the kitchen table, the floor. Same homework, but something about the room changed how I thought about it. I didn’t know why, but it worked. So I kept moving.

Then the desk moved without my permission. A surgeon’s table, then my bed for weeks. Then again, and again. I was born with a rare bone disease, and by middle school the rooms were being chosen for me.

An experimental treatment changed that. I rebuilt from the inside out — lost forty pounds, started lifting, started running. Once again the rooms were mine to choose, and I chose all of them. A federal government economics lab, a boba shop, an oncology VC fund, a quant desk, consulting for PE megafunds, insurtech, venture capital, clinical research, the wards at Children’s National. Each time I carried something with me from the last desk. Each time the new room taught me something the old one couldn’t.

Maybe it was restlessness. Maybe it was the kind of curiosity that doesn’t know where it’s going until it gets there. Either way, somewhere between returning a round of funding I’d raised and sitting across from my twentieth healthcare executive, something shifted. I stopped looking for the next room.

Healthcare wasn’t a room I chose the first time. Now it is. Building, learning, staying.