Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I remember becoming a foster parent.

It starts with twenty-plus hours of mandatory training. My husband and I were determined to adopt—a child already in the system, one who needed a permanent home. With three biological children, we wanted to complete our family with a fourth. So we signed up, hopeful.

But in California, even becoming certified to foster feels like a full-time job. The training had to be done in person. The nearest location was twenty miles away. Both parents had to attend. For two working professionals with three young children, that meant synchronized time off work and securing child care—every week, for weeks.

We managed the first couple of classes, but quickly realized we weren’t the “typical” foster parents. Most of the others were there out of necessity—caring for relatives, often navigating systems they had grown up mistrusting or surviving. The socioeconomic and educational divide was palpable. It wasn’t discomfort that got to us—it was the sense that this system wasn’t built with any flexibility. Ultimately, we paused.

But we didn’t give up.

Eventually, we found a nearby Foster Family Agency (FFA). They had child care onsite. The training was approachable, the staff kind. It felt like someone had finally removed a few of the hurdles.

Then came the day a child was placed in our home.

Along with him came a packet of instructions. A food stamps voucher. A phone number for Medi-Cal. I was a physician—a urologic surgeon. I had never used food stamps. Never needed government assistance. But I thought, how hard can it be? I’ve navigated the medical system, I can figure this out.

First stop: food stamps.

“Where do I go?” I asked.

“Your local welfare office,” they said.

I didn’t even know where that was.

The building, when I found it, looked abandoned. Peeling paint. No windows. No sign out front. My Volvo was the only new car in the lot. I walked in. No one greeted me. I waited, unsure. A woman eventually emerged, speaking only Spanish. I apologized, said I didn’t understand. She nodded, took my papers, pointed toward a small room with a video playing.

The video was about infant feeding. Also in Spanish.

I asked if there was an English version. Blank stares.

I left with a sample bag and a packet of food stamps. The instructions—also in Spanish—were long and confusing.

I stood in the grocery aisle trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out which brands were eligible, which sizes qualified. I guessed. Wrongly. The cashier was annoyed. I tried to explain, fumbling through it. Finally, I handed her the whole booklet and said, “Just use whatever works. I’ll pay for the rest.”

Then I saw it.

She looked at my ring. My clothes. Really looked. Suspicion crossed her face. A well-dressed white woman in line with food stamps?

I explained. I’m a foster parent. This is how the state helps cover the cost.

She softened, slightly. But the damage was done. The line behind me grew. I was embarrassed. Flustered. Rushing.

And I kept thinking: If I, a doctor, feel this lost and judged—what about the people who don’t have the same privileges?

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That moment cracked something open for me.

It made me realize how often we assume that systems work simply because we know how to work them. But navigating public benefits, like navigating healthcare, is a full-time job in itself—one full of invisible barriers, especially for those who don’t speak the language, who don’t have transportation, time off work, or professional credentials to back them up.

We tell patients to get labs, imaging, referrals. We hand them printouts and say, “Follow up here.” But what happens after they leave the clinic?

Who’s helping them?

The truth is, our systems are not designed for people in crisis. They’re designed for those who already know the language—literal and metaphorical.

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Here’s what the numbers say:

• More than 77 million people in the U.S. have low health literacy—meaning they struggle to understand medical instructions, forms, or insurance (HHS, 2023).
• 1 in 5 U.S. adults speaks a language other than English at home, and over 25 million speak English “less than very well” (U.S. Census Bureau, 2022).
• Language barriers lead to higher rates of medical errors, missed appointments, and worse outcomes—especially in marginalized communities.

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Call to Action:

If we want better health outcomes, we must build better systems.

• Health information should be offered in multiple languages, at appropriate literacy levels, using visual aids and interpreters—not as an afterthought, but as standard care.
• Government offices must be welcoming, accessible, and staffed by individuals trained in trauma-informed, culturally competent service.
• And most importantly, we must listen—not to what we assume patients need, but to what they’re telling us they don’t understand.

Because if the system failed me—a surgeon with resources—then it is unquestionably failing the patients we claim to serve.