A.S.K.: The Questions That Changed Everything

Life has its before and after moments. One of my biggest “after” moments came at the end of 2021.

For over four years, I worked in the operating room as a neurophysiologist (fancy for monitoring nerve function during surgeries where nerves are at risk). I had a steady routine: pilates, a country club membership, and a newly built home in Michigan, where I was born, raised, and educated (Go Blue!). Life was comfortable. Predictable.

Then, in October, I quit my job.

It surprised everyone—my family, friends, and probably even myself. But something inside me knew it was time for a change. So when my sister asked for help driving her beloved Honda Pilot, “Penny Pilot,” to her A-frame cabin in Aspen, I jumped at the chance. The timing was perfect—my cousin’s bar mitzvah was the following weekend, so why not turn it into a road trip?

We embraced the journey with the playful spirit of our childhood selves (shoutout to our family’s white Honda Odyssey and countless hours of pretend play). At the world’s largest truck stop on I-80, we bought trucker hats and fully committed to our new personas. My sister, a self-proclaimed five-star co-pilot, lived up to her title: water bottles magically appeared in moments of need, playlists were expertly queued, and snacks were plentiful.

Fifteen hours into the drive, it hit me—I’d been the sole driver the entire time. Nebraska stretched endlessly behind us (if you know, you know), and we still had five hours to go. But we pushed through, arriving in Denver in one piece, collapsing into bed, and waking up to a breathtaking Colorado sunrise.

Our excitement was palpable as we set off for Aspen via Independence Pass. The mountains were majestic, the sun danced on Twin Lakes, and everything felt magical—until we saw the sign: INDY PASS CLOSED.

At first, we convinced ourselves the sign was wrong (no service to confirm otherwise). But after another sign and a firmly closed gate, we realized we had no choice but to double back. Morale plummeted. No playlist felt right, tension simmered, and we exchanged more than one UGH, CAN YOU NOT?

We didn’t arrive at the A-frame until 3 p.m., but when we finally got there, we exhaled. We smiled.

In that moment, my mind started racing. Quitting my job in Michigan meant I didn’t need to live in Michigan. Not living in Michigan meant I didn’t need to date my boyfriend. These realizations felt both terrifying and freeing. I said them out loud for the first time, and it was as if the pieces of my life began falling into place.

The bar mitzvah came and went, but something else stood out that weekend: a late-night visit from a soul-ologist (yes, that’s a thing) who happened to be dating my uncle’s brother. She read our birth charts under the dim glow of the A-frame, calling us “Alpine Snow Kittens.”

A.S.K.

And just like that, a new chapter began.

It all begins with an idea.