Trust Fall

We’ve all seen those classic “team building” exercises where you’re expected to fall backward with your eyes closed, trusting near-strangers to catch you. Heart racing, you replay every interaction with the group, hoping someone will care enough to break your fall. You pray you won’t need to activate your health insurance for a head injury if they decide you’re not worth saving.

The trust fall? That is a hard pass for me.

In the past, I asked, Do You Trust Me? as I reflected on society’s growing distrust in science and medicine. I questioned why you no longer trusted me, a representative of an institution dedicated to your health and longevity.

But here’s my truth: I don’t trust you either.

I often joke that I chose pediatrics because I dislike adults, but the reason is deeper than that. Adults have repeatedly betrayed my trust without reason, leaving me wondering how I can remain so naïve. After all these years, I should know better.

“It makes my heart sick when I remember all the good words and the broken promises” – Chief Joseph.

This quote encapsulates my childhood with two people who hated each other more than they loved the child they created. Fortunately, my parents did not stay together “for my benefit” and chose to divorce after years of volatility. My father walked out, promising he’d come back for me. It took my near-death experience as a pedestrian on the streets of Florida for him to keep that promise.

My mother, on the other hand, had a female version of her ex-husband to punish: me. When I outgrew her diminutive frame, she shifted from physical punishment to words—far more effective in diminishing a girl’s self-worth. She still speaks to me as if I’m that confused eight-year-old, not a nationally recognized trauma surgeon and CEO of a health-tech startup.

Because my parents never protected the little girl I was, I built a career protecting others. And my therapist would observe that I’ve spent my life searching for the father figure I never had.

Life is a blend of talent, opportunity, and luck. My luck appeared during my Downstate residency interview when I met my mentor, Dr. Gilchrist, the archetype against whom I compare all older male surgeons. He kept his promise to me during that residency interview, protecting and nurturing my career to this day decades later. I have paid it forward by doing the same for those in my charge.

After Carle, my natural introversion deepened. Wounded by a hospital administration that asked me to “trust the process” and a partner who betrayed me when I sought her support, I became even more guarded.

Desperate to return to the OR, I swallowed my pride and contacted my network. I endured a humiliating Zoom interview with Harlem Hospital’s surgical team in September. One pediatric surgeon stunned me by asking how I planned to balance being a surgeon and a mother. None of the men spoke up against this archaic question. I assured them I had managed both for years without either suffering, privately proud that my then eight-year-old son had better manners than these men.

After jumping through endless hoops, I finally secured credentialing four months later. The Chief of Surgery demanded to know when I planned to move to New York. Committed, I sold my house, stirred up a custody battle, and prepared to relocate—driven by my desire to care for children and operate again despite my reservations about the hospital.

The last step, I was told, was a physical and a hospital tour. On my second day in NY at Harlem Hospital, I was blindsided: the credentialing committee chair wanted a meeting. In over two decades of practice with no malpractice history, I had never been summoned by a credentialing committee. I did not expect a casual chat about my career goals.

During the WebEx meeting, Dr. Sharla Bryan, the hospital medical board president, hadn’t even reviewed my CV. Instead, she relied on a mock-up from a locum agency. Later, a second medical board meeting was arranged. This was with Dr. Kerr, the VP of the medical board, who asked if I felt good about starting at Harlem Hospital, and I was honest about my reservations considering the last-day interactions. He assured me I should not judge the hospital based on Dr. Bryan’s behavior. As a man of color, he found Harlem Hospital to be the most supportive culture of his career. I assured him I wouldn’t judge harshly—being underestimated by a White woman is a familiar experience for Black professional women.

I cut my trip short, knowing I’d accomplished nothing. On the drive home, we (my son and I) were in a highway accident. The car was totaled, but we walked away with minor bruises by the grace of God. Grateful but shaken, I reminded myself that a vehicle in NYC was more of a burden than a blessing.

Then came more setbacks. On my birthday, I was informed that my credentialing was, in fact, not complete and was being held up by Dr. Bryan; no other details were forthcoming. In addition, I learned that the hospital had withdrawn its offer to subsidize my move just days before the movers were scheduled. I called Dr. Donaldson in a panic, only to discover he was on vacation. By all accounts, he could’ve resolved the credentialing issue before his vacation. His inaction spoke volumes to me and, most likely, others. Because whether we like it or not, the reality of leadership is that a leader leads by example.

Now, I am in limbo, wondering if this is a place I can trust with my career. I am disappointed in myself for giving my trust to someone who did nothing to earn it.

In medicine, trust is everything. It’s a team sport. But for a Black woman, hesitation from others feeds into the persistent doubt about whether you belong.

The stakes are never the same for us.

And sometimes, the most brutal fall is the one you take when trust is broken.