I Tell Lies

For my nine-year-old son, I have been 26 for the past year. Before that, I was 25 for nearly two decades. Call it a white lie if you want—I make it work. But glancing at my LinkedIn profile would tell you I graduated from medical school in 2000. I am gifted, but not that gifted I wasn’t dissecting cadavers in diapers.

One thing I have never lied about, though, is my training. My qualifications. The closest I ever came was before I made peace with my near-death experience. I used to deflect, downplay, make excuses for why my residency took longer than my peers’. As if being hit by a car and clawing my way back to excellence was a mark of weakness instead of proof of my grit. I remember the last time I fudged the details of my accident. And I remember the exact moment I stopped.

It was the summer of 2021. My contract with TGH had ended, and I was back on the job market. Locum work was lucrative, but COVID had turned travel into a gamble. More importantly, my son was old enough to notice my absences—to feel them. I didn’t go through three rounds of IVF to be a mother in name only. I needed a job that let me be a surgeon and a mother.

That’s when a Mississippi Institute of Advanced Medicine recruiter reached out. They needed a solo pediatric surgeon for their boutique practice—one that treated children with complex medical conditions. It was led by Dr. Spencer Sullivan, a pediatric hematologist and the former director of the University of Mississippi Medical Center’s Hemophilia Treatment Center. He had left UMMC in 2016 to form his own private, for-profit medical group.

The job meant no days off unless I hired my own locum support, but I liked the town of Madison, Mississippi. This community needed a surgeon. Dr. Sullivan quickly agreed to my terms. I knew the interview was going well when they asked for peer references. The COO, Jordan Robinson, told me he’d be in touch soon with a final decision.

The following day, as I packed to return home, Dr. Sullivan called with one last question:

"Why did your residency take an extra three years?"

I fumbled. I don’t even remember what I said. But even as the words left my mouth, I knew they didn’t ring true.

The irony? Dr. Sullivan had skeletons of his own.

At the time, UMMC was suing him. When he was hired in 2014 to lead the Hemophilia Treatment Center, his contract—like most physician contracts—included a non-compete clause. When he left, UMMC alleged that he took a spreadsheet of patient names and treatment protocols and used it to solicit those patients for his new clinic. It was public knowledge. He had even admitted parts of it to me.

And yet, I was the one afraid to tell the truth.

Before I left, I sat down and wrote out the full story of my accident—how a car ran a red light, how I fought my way back, how I feared I would never be the same, much less become a pediatric surgeon. The accident wasn’t my fault, but I had treated it like a stain, something to be hidden. That was on me. And it was time to stop.

I sent the email. I thought it was a breakthrough.

The next day, Mr. Robinson called.

"We won’t be making you an offer," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you were dishonest."

They had branded me a liar.

Three years later, in November 2024, Dr. Sullivan was found guilty of perjury. The ex-husband of a nurse who had followed him from UMMC to his clinic found a printed patient list in his ex-wife’s car. He turned it over to UMMC. That list proved Dr. Sullivan had stolen patient data despite his sworn testimony denying it.

As a result, he lost his Mississippi medical license for life and shut down his entire practice. If the terms of his settlement are breached, he and the Mississippi Center for Advanced Medicine will owe $28.3 million.

Why am I telling this story?

Not to shame Dr. Sullivan.

But because so many of us take responsibility for things that happened to us, as if they are marks of failure, signs of God’s judgment.

But what defines you is not the fall—it’s how you rise.

I remember how devastated I was when that man and his team called me dishonest. But in hindsight, that rejection forced me to face the truth.

I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t broken.

I was a warrior.

I once thought God had blocked my path. But really? I was being protected.

And I am still here.

A 26-year-old warrior—because Black don’t crack, and neither do I.