When I was 10 years old, I watched my father make a decision that would shape the rest of my life.

My father had followed in the footsteps of my grandfather and become a physician. In our family, medicine wasn't just a career, it was a form of Tsadaka — the Jewish tradition of giving back. My grandfather embodied that idea. He served as a doctor in the Korean War and viewed his service as a way to give back to the country he loved. The expectation was clear: my brother and I would become doctors, too.

Then managed care arrived in the early 1990s, and everything changed.

Suddenly, doctors like my father were being asked to sign agreements that required them to consider not just what was best for their patients, but what was best for insurance companies. My father looked at those contracts and said “no.” He ethically objected to compromising any part of the doctor-patient relationship.

As a result, his practice struggled for part of my childhood. Watching a parent battle against forces completely outside his control was deeply unsettling. At the time, I did not fully understand the economics or policy dynamics at play, but I knew something important was being lost.

I became intensely curious. I wanted to understand what was happening to the healthcare system and why it was affecting my family. I also wanted to help my father — even if my contributions were small. At that age, it amounted to helping coin the name “Independent Doctors of New York,” a group of physicians who refused to sign gag clauses or allow interference in the doctor-patient relationship.

At 13, I joined Model Congress, studying the US healthcare system and comparing it to other countries’ health systems, while writing a model bill on “Comprehensive Healthcare Reform.”

Watching how healthcare was evolving, I made a decision: I wouldn't become a doctor. But I’d still find a way to help patients through medicine. 

In college, I created my own major in biology and the history/philosophy of science. My thesis examined the pharmaceutical industry and its declining productivity. Those ideas led me to drop out of college and start a pharma company, where I saw firsthand how difficult it was for patients to get affordable medications, and for manufacturers to price drugs rationally.

I came to believe that perhaps the most important bottleneck in healthcare was not the discovery of new cures, but ensuring that existing cures actually reached patients who needed them. This was an engineering and business model problem, not a basic science problem, and that realization energized me.

After college, my brother and I became investors, which gave us unlimited resources to study the pharmaceutical supply chain, and technology industries. We soon developed a simple but ambitious idea for improving patients’ health: What if we digitized the front end patient experience and the back end systems the pharmaceutical industry used? Done correctly, this could lower drug prices, increase access, improve patients’ experiences, and create more value for manufacturers which they could reinvest in developing new medicines.

BlinkRx is the result of that vision, and the culmination of more than 30 years of thinking, studying, and iterating on ideas about how to improve healthcare.

This isn't just business to me.  BlinkRx brings together everything that has mattered to me over a lifetime: protecting the doctor-patient relationship, expanding access to affordable medication, and using data and technology to strengthen the science that drives better care.

I've been working on the problems BlinkRx helps solve since I was 13. I lived through the challenges that inspired this company during my most formative years. That's what's given me the strength to never quit — to keep figuring things out in the midst of seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Because at its core, BlinkRx is our answer to the question: How do we fix what's broken in healthcare?

This is my life's work. And we're just getting started.