Rainbow Connection

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows” – the Rainbow Connection, sung by Kermit, the frog in the Muppet movie, has been playing on repeat in my head; for a frog, it was about his reflection on his struggles and desire to find his place in this world. I have also been looking for my rainbow connection as I reflect on the past year as it ends.

I read a Facebook post asking us, black female physicians, to boast about our most tremendous success from the last year. The only one I could think of was that I chose to continue my life. With all that I have faced, I have remained in the fight, which is my most significant success, for everything I have built, and every title I have earned has been made negligible in 2024.

When I left Carle, I thought I would return to my old life, but like a festering wound, that one comment they placed on my NPDB has continued to grow to encompass the 20 years I had worked as a pediatric surgeon. I can’t begin to recall the number of interviews I went on only to be rejected, some not even bothering to send me a letter of closure.

Ultimately, I had to pry a window open by reaching out to my network, begging to be allowed to return to the work I loved, that I am good at and trained 13 years to be able to do — take care of children. I am returning to NY, but not with my arms wide open. Not because I don’t love the city and its people, I do, but because the opportunity is being given as charity.

And while I struggled to find footing in a career where I had begun as a trailblazer, I still had to maintain a stable life for my son.

My role as a mother has also been under attack by a man who had found his only purpose in life was to provide torment in mine. His use of alcohol to give him a spine almost led to the death of our only child when he got behind the wheel of his truck with a BAL of 0.39 to pick up our child from school. Only the intervention of God prevented lives from being lost that day. I had foolishly hoped this event would finally free me from his malicious attacks via the family courts. The criminal courts only punished him with a 13-day staycation, and he lost his license. So, when we went to court at the beginning of December, I believed freedom to parent as I saw fit, the right of every other parent, might be my early Christmas gift. Instead, Judge Beckett gave him more visitation over the holidays and required me to provide the transportation.

As I write this, I am fresh from an interaction with the police, who I had to call as he refused to release our son to my care at the end of his time. Champaign police must have been just as tired as me as they refused to intervene, and I had to return home without my son.

So, are you a parent if you can’t determine where your son lays his head at night or if strangers can tell you that you can’t see your child, as you must walk away and leave him with a documented child abuser? I don’t think so.

My only triumph for 2024 has been finding my writing voice and realizing I am not alone in my struggles. However, I will be honest: this is not a sorority that wanted to pledge. I created WCGR to fight back, but I am tired of fighting. Black women everywhere are exhausted, and I don’t see an end in sight, at least not for the next four years and maybe beyond.

But 2025 must be better than 2024.

In 2025, I will find peace professionally and personally. I hope others will join me in the fight for equity in medicine and acknowledge Black women for their contributions during their lives, not just posthumously.

That is my wish for 2025, to find my rainbow connection.