Growing up, I spent much of my childhood in Asia. Bangkok, Thailand, in particular, was where my family would go for annual check-ups or any health issues that came up. Looking back now, I realize I was accustomed to something many would consider a luxury: concierge healthcare. Doctors knew me, appointments were thorough, and there was a sense that care meant more than just running through a checklist.

What also stands out to me is how those trips for medical tourism in Thailand never felt heavy. They were almost like family vacations. In between visits to Bangkok healthcare specialists, we’d wander through Robinsons Department Store, trying on clothes and bringing back little treasures. We’d snack on Bangkok’s famous street food—skewers of grilled chicken, mango sticky rice, or coconut ice cream—and then take in Thai cultural events with bright costumes, traditional dance, and music that felt alive. Healthcare wasn’t just about doctors’ offices; it was folded into family rituals, food, and joy.

Fast forward to the past few years—navigating fertility treatment, egg freezing, embryo transfers, and now prenatal care in the U.S.—I’ve often felt the opposite. Most of my appointments here have been quick, impersonal, and rarely lasted more than 10 minutes. It has left me feeling unseen during what should be one of the most supported seasons of my life.

That feeling wasn’t entirely new. During my father’s later years, caring for him and navigating the U.S. healthcare system was an uphill battle. It was exhausting to get him the care he needed, to convince doctors to take his symptoms seriously, and to fight with Medicare for basic coverage. I became an expert in advocacy—learning how to push through bureaucracy, communicate effectively with providers, and demand the respect and compassion he deserved. But somewhere in that process, I forgot that I needed the same level of care for myself. It took so much effort to fight for him that when it came to my own care, I accepted the bare minimum without realizing it.

One thing that’s helped me bridge that gap is the Maven Clinic app. Through Maven, I’ve had both a fertility coordinator and a prenatal care coordinator who actually spend time with me. They build monthly care plans and connect me to an ecosystem of support—mental health practitioners, nurses, dieticians, doulas. The most surprising (and frankly, most necessary) part of it all? Career coaching for moms. Because so much of my stress hasn’t just been medical—it’s been about rebuilding my career after being RIFed.

Through Maven, I’ve also learned to better advocate for myself and what I need from my providers. That self-advocacy has reshaped how I approach my own care—I recently switched from an OBGYN to a midwifery practice that centers more compassionate, holistic care. The difference has been night and day: longer visits, thoughtful conversations, and a renewed sense that my voice matters in every decision.

Maven has also helped me understand the changing pregnancy healthcare landscape in the U.S. A few weeks ago, I saw headlines linking Tylenol and autism. Even though I’ve spent 11 years of my career in global health, being pregnant makes you spiral down certain rabbit holes when this kind of “new” information surfaces. Maven quickly turned around an article written by one of their doctors, breaking down the actual science and reassuring me that it’s safe to take Tylenol when I need it. That clarity gave me the peace of mind I desperately needed.

For me, Maven has restored some of that lost sense of personalized pregnancy care, reminding me that whole-person pregnancy support includes both the body and the mind—and sometimes, even the résumé. If you’re navigating fertility or pregnancy and finding the healthcare system overwhelming, it may help to know that resources like Maven Clinic exist. Sometimes, the right support system can make all the difference.