(From a parking lot, a CEU course, and a decision that changed everything)
There’s a moment in every clinician’s life when the quiet, nagging feeling becomes impossible to ignore.
For years, I felt it every time I charted through lunch.
Every time I squeezed in one more unit “to keep productivity up.”
Every time I watched a patient get worse because their insurance dictated the plan instead of their needs.
It was background noise at first.
Static. Irritation.
The kind of discomfort you can rationalize away with phrases like:
- “That’s just how it is.”
- “Everyone deals with this.”
- “Maybe I just need to push through.”
But then there comes a day when the discomfort becomes too loud to ignore.
For me, that day happened in the parking lot of a shitty Holiday Inn.
The Breaking Point I Didn’t See Coming
It was January 2020.
I was sitting through a weekend CEU course—not because I believed this instructor had anything new to teach me, but because the system requires us to collect letters after our name to maintain the privilege of participating in its brokenness.
By lunchtime, I couldn’t take it anymore.
The instructor had spent the entire morning defending a productivity model that everyone in the room knew was harmful. He told us to “do the best we can,” yet admitted that treatments needed to fit neatly into billing requirements—regardless of what the patient actually needed.
It was one of those surreal moments where the dissonance becomes almost comical.
Here we were, clinicians who swore an oath to put patients first…
listening to someone openly say we should prioritize a billing grid instead.
On my lunch break, I walked out to my truck, shut the door, and everything just… hit.
This wasn’t mild annoyance.
This wasn’t professional disagreement.
This was a full-body “I can’t do this anymore.”
I didn’t have a plan.
I didn’t have a business.
I didn’t have a team.
All I had was anger, clarity, and a deep, almost desperate desire for something different.
And that was enough.
The X-Ray That Started a Movement
I pulled out my phone.
Googled an X-ray of a middle finger.
And posted the first honest message I had ever put into the world:
“I’m done sitting on the sidelines.
This is the year I do something about the broken healthcare system.
I hope you’ll join me.”
That post wasn’t strategic.
It wasn’t part of a content plan.
It wasn’t optimized for reach.
It was a declaration.
A line in the sand.
A refusal to keep tolerating the intolerable.
Looking back, that single act—the decision to finally speak up—was the first domino that fell and set everything else in motion.
What I Didn’t Know Then…
I didn’t know that post would lead to thousands of clinicians finding their courage again.
I didn’t know it would evolve into a full-blown movement, a community, and a reimagined approach to healthcare.
I didn’t know it would become The HoneyBadger Project.
And I definitely didn’t know that within five years, we’d help more than 1,200 clinicians:
- escape jobs that were suffocating them
- build future-proof, tech-enabled practices
- serve patients without the third-party leash
- reclaim the purpose that led them into this profession
All I knew was this:
Revolution doesn’t start with a business model.
Revolution starts with deciding you’re no longer willing to tolerate bullshit.
That lunch break wasn’t a business decision.
It was a human decision.
The kind you feel in your bones.
The kind that doesn’t ask permission.
The kind that doesn’t wait for perfect timing.
Why This Story Matters to You
Because if you’re reading this blog, you’ve felt it too.
That quiet frustration.
The misalignment.
The exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical labor and everything to do with moral injury.
You know, deep down, that something is off.
Maybe you’ve tried to push through.
Maybe you’ve convinced yourself you’re overreacting.
Maybe you’ve told yourself “this is just how healthcare works.”
But hear me clearly:
If you feel this tension, it means you’re waking up.
It means you’re not crazy.
It means the system is failing you—not the other way around.
Every clinician who’s ever built something remarkable started with a moment like mine.
Not a grand plan.
Not a perfect blueprint.
Just a breaking point and a choice.
The Real Lesson from the Holiday Inn Parking Lot
I didn’t overhaul my life that day.
I didn’t quit my job the next morning.
I didn’t magically “figure out my purpose.”
What I did do was make a decision:
I refused to keep quiet.
And once you stop being quiet—your entire life starts to shift.
You don’t need a perfect plan.
You don’t need a business degree.
You don’t need confidence.
You need honesty.
You need courage.
You need one tiny moment of rebellion.
That’s the crack where the light gets in.
That’s the spark that ignites everything.
That was my moment.
Maybe today is yours.