OK, so—Connecticut.
It went really well. Unfortunately, I still don’t have an answer about the job.
Which is kind of crazy, because I thought I was going to. I really believed that going up there put me at a fork in the road—like, standing before me was either a clear opportunity or a clear rejection. Either my life would change, or it would stay the same… but I’d at least have my answer.
And I had already made peace with both outcomes. I told myself: no matter what, this is a win. I’ve made new connections, started building relationships, and moved in the right direction. If the goal of life is experience, then this—this is a win. Deep breaths. That’s what I kept repeating to myself.
So yeah… I did not expect to leave without an answer.
Let’s rewind to Thursday, April 30.
My husband and I flew out—well, attempted to. Of course, our flight was delayed. We were supposed to land at Bradley International Airport just after 4:00 PM, but we didn’t even leave Baltimore/Washington Airport until around 4:15.
Lovely.
My hiring manager had already made dinner reservations for 6:00 at a cute spot in Windsor, Connecticut. He told me to just get there when I could—very kind, very understanding—but still… added stress.
On the flight, I was seated between two older women. We got to chatting, and they turned out to be from western Connecticut. As we were landing, they told me, “Just throw on some blush, keep that smile, and go get your job.”
And honestly? That was exactly what I needed to hear. Because internally, everything was clenched. Nausea rising. Full-body anxiety. Systems in complete disarray.
We landed, grabbed our bags, split up—my husband waited at baggage claim while I sprinted to the rental car counter—and then we met back up and checked into the hotel.
I did exactly what those women told me: slapped on some blush, threw on mascara, and hauled ass to the restaurant.
Dinner ended up being with my hiring manager and two current employees—one more senior than the other—and it was genuinely a great time. I felt like I showed up well. Professional, but still myself.
Looking back, I think I did a solid job articulating my journey—from wanting to be a veterinarian to where I am now, and the kind of impact I want to have. I explained that I don’t want a job that’s just… a job. I don’t want to rotate through patients without depth. I want to have a meaningful, behind-the-scenes impact on patient outcomes.
I talked about how I thrive in structured environments—protocols, checklists, training systems. That’s how my brain works. I’m always looking for ways to improve efficiency and standardize processes, because that’s how you prevent system failure.
And when they asked about initiative—whether I need to understand the “why” behind things—I was like… emphatically, yes.
Not only yes, but I gave examples.
Including one from when I was eight years old.
We were learning multiplication tables, and our teacher told us that if we mastered them, we’d get to make ice cream sundaes. Which, to me, was a high-stakes incentive because I have always been an absolute ice cream hog.
Side note: growing up, there was basically an unspoken rule in our house that if you wanted ice cream, you’d better get to it before I did. I didn’t care who you were. Four years old, forty years old, built like a refrigerator — get in line, buddy. That cappuccino chocolate chunk was mine.
Our teacher said, “In word problems, ‘of’ means multiply.”
And I remember thinking: What? Why?
No explanation. Just a rule. Everyone else accepted it and went to recess. I remember sitting under this giant yellow playground slide that shocked the absolute shit out of you with static electricity every time you stood up. And while every other kid ran off to recess, I sat there trying to figure out why “of” meant multiply.
Eventually, I connected it: ½ of 4 equals 2… and ½ × 4 also equals 2.
And I had this little eight-year-old epiphany: Oh. That’s why.
That moment stuck with me. I’ve always needed to understand the reasoning behind things—not just accept them.
Friday was OR shadowing day at Saint Francis Hospital… and wow.
But first—getting there.
The plan was simple: park, walk in, meet at Panera.
Instead, GPS took us to the emergency entrance. My husband had already driven off, and I walked in asking where Panera was.
The security guard looked at me like, oh no. Then proceeded to give me the most complex set of directions known to man—green elevators, blue elevators, left, right, left again—and I absorbed approximately -3% of it. Yeah, negative.
I got lost. Asked for help. Got more directions. Rinse, repeat.
But I made it. At 7:06. Slightly late, slightly frazzled, but not crying—so honestly, a win.
By the way, Northerners are nice. They’re just more direct about it. More efficient. Slightly more cussy. Honestly, I appreciated it because Southern kindness sometimes operates like emotional espionage. Down South, someone says, “bless your heart,” and what they really mean is, “respectfully, fuck yourself.”
Up there? They’ll just tell you the elevators are confusing and keep it moving.
Then the OR.
It was… intense. Not the polished, calm version you see online. This was organized chaos.
You’re monitoring multiple screens, analyzing heart rhythms in real time, communicating with the physician, helping guide ablation decisions. It’s fast, complex, and high stakes.
And weirdly? I loved it.
My brain thrives in that environment. Fast-paced, detail-heavy, constantly processing. It’s exhausting, yes—but it’s also where I shine.
The first case? No ablation—we couldn’t reliably induce the arrhythmia.
The second? Classic atrial fibrillation. Clear mapping, clear target, precise ablation.
Watching that process—seeing how you identify, map, and eliminate abnormal tissue—was incredible.
Afterward, I spoke with my hiring manager and the regional director.
At one point, she looked at me and said, “So how much do you want to get paid?”
I nearly lost my mind.
But then they told me they had another candidate to meet—someone they’d already committed to. And they needed to honor that.
My hiring manager reassured me: I showed up prepared, meshed well with the team, demonstrated initiative. I shouldn’t feel anxious.
He even walked me out, met my husband, and gave us recommendations for neighborhoods, restaurants, and things to do.
Saturday, we drove to Canton, Connecticut and went to this adorable café.
The girl behind the counter was hustling, moving, grooving, completely in her own little world. Every now and then she’d round a corner with somebody’s sandwich and make a tiny sound effect like “boop!” or “zoom!” and I was like, yes. Exactly. That’s the kind of energy I understand.
I told Sam, “I like watching her work.”
She just had rhythm to her. Like she needed more cowbell or something. Hell, who doesn’t?
We went next door to an antique shop… and ran into my hiring manager.
Like what the fuck?
He was there looking for vintage Martha Stewart books for his wife—and casually mentioned his daughter works at the café.
Cue me and my husband just staring at each other like, what is happening.
And then, as we got back in the car, a song came on—
Goodbye Carolina
—and I just sat there thinking:
Alright. I get it.
Let’s get me my butterfly tattoo because this metamorphosis has already begun.
