My mom got breast cancer when I was a little baby. At the time, I thought: I have to be a doctor. And then I became a doctor, finally.

I had a very full and happy life with my family, friends, and my work in Myanmar. I was a medical officer for the Ministry of Health’s Non-Communicable Diseases Unit, working on cancer prevention, early detection, cancer data and registry. I had many plans for my career.

Then the military coup happened in 2021, and everything changed. I stopped working for the government and continued providing medical care to people injured during the protests. Eventually, I was targeted and could no longer safely stay at home or at the hospital.

Leaving my country was very emotional. I was sad because I didn't know when I would be able to return to my home and the life I had built.

But when I first stepped onto U.S. soil, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time: I felt safe. I realized I could start my life again.

Getting the opportunity to work at Stanford was an additional reward. It allowed me to use my medical background and experience again. I am basically the data anchor for our transplant patients; 99% of my work is on the computer. But I never miss the patient reunion. I see the survivors and hear them talk about how new treatments and clinical trials saved their lives, and it really hits home. It reminds me that behind every single data point is a real person. That's what drives my meticulous attention to detail every day.

I worked as a general practitioner in Myanmar. I had my own private clinic, where I saw patients on a regular basis. I enjoyed getting to know my patients and following them over time, rather than just treating one problem and moving on.

When I came to the United States, I wouldn't say I had to start over from everything. The education and medical experience I gained before are still valuable and continue to help me in my work today. But the hardest part at the beginning wasn't really the career. It was being away from my family and friends. That was probably the moment when starting over felt most real.

Now I work with clinical data for transplant patients. Once a patient undergoes transplant, I help maintain their lifelong follow-up records. I feel that I am part of a large effort to improve healthcare.

One moment that has really stayed with me was at a patient reunion, where I volunteered as a greeter. I met a patient who shared his journey with me. He had been in and out of the hospital, going through chemotherapy and feeling sick for a long time. After the transplant, things started to change. He no longer needed chemotherapy. His anxiety and depression had improved. The recovery was better than expected, and he was able to see his grandchildren grow up.

He thanked the entire research team and said that the data we collect is part of the research, and that he knew the data we collected was part of what made his treatment possible.

We work with so many forms and so much data every day. But behind every form and every piece of information, there is a real person and a real life. It reminded me that every piece of information matters and that the work we do can make a difference.

The door was closed, so I knocked. The room was dark, the curtain drawn around the bed. I said, "Hello, it's Patricia." A low voice said, "Come in."

I opened the curtain, and I saw a peaceful man lying there. My heart felt heavy. I asked how he was doing. He said, "This is it."

And then, somehow, we started talking. About the clinical trial visits — some required him to come in so frequently. He asked how old my son was. And then he asked if I still had the wood carving he'd made for him. He loved to make them, carved one for my son when he was born, and one with my name for my desk. I told him it's in my son's room and we see it every day. He said that was his way of saying thank you.

When it was time to go, I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye. So I said, "Thank you for all you did for our research team." He said, "You're very welcome." Then he told me to go back to work — he knew I was always busy — and thanked me for stopping by.

He had asked the pulmonary hypertension (PH) staff he knew to come visit him. And he included me. I've been in this field for 17 years. That visit is when I understood what I've actually been doing all along.

My family's journey started before mine. My parents moved from Hong Kong to Thailand in search of better career opportunities, and my siblings and I became the first generation born and raised there. Growing up between Chinese and Thai cultures taught me to respect differences, stay open to different perspectives, and appreciate the richness that comes from diverse backgrounds.

Years later, I came to the US as an international graduate student. Leaving home and starting over was both exciting and intimidating. I had to adapt to a new culture and way of life while building a support network from scratch. But those experiences gave me a deeper appreciation for how important it is to make people feel welcomed and supported.

Serving as interim division manager was one of the most challenging and defining experiences of my career. During COVID, I suddenly found myself overseeing many areas beyond my traditional finance responsibilities. There were days when I felt like I was learning an entirely new job every morning. The weight wasn't just the workload — it was the responsibility that came with it. Faculty, staff, and leadership were looking for answers and direction while I was navigating uncertainty. And adding to that challenge, my family was dealing with a serious and unexpected illness. Balancing those personal challenges with the demands of work was incredibly difficult and, at times, overwhelming.

Looking back, it reminded me that leadership isn't about having all the answers. It's about showing up, being willing to learn, supporting people through uncertainty, and doing the best you can with the information you have.

The numbers are incredibly important, but they're only part of the story. Behind every budget line, forecast, and financial report are people — and I believe the best decisions happen when we take both into account.