A birthday tribute to three decades of growing up together
I met Nidhi when I was eighteen and thought I knew everything. She was nineteen and my resident assistant at the University of South Florida, already carrying losses that would have broken most people twice her age. Her father passed the previous year. Her twin brother had been murdered. And there she was, this young woman trying to hold herself together while helping freshmen find their way around campus.
If you’d asked anyone back then whether we’d make it, they’d have laughed. We were always at odds—two emotionally stunted kids who barely understood ourselves, let alone each other. I was the stoic one, spending my days playing basketball, reading, studying. She was the extrovert who could talk to anyone and did, constantly, much to my bewilderment. We were a terrible match on paper.
But I saw something in her even then. A diamond in the rough, I used to think. Though “rough” feels like an understatement when I remember those early years—her grief still raw, both of us fumbling through our own emotional damage like teenagers navigating in the dark. Which, of course, we were.
The Long Road
Our relationship survived things it probably shouldn’t have. A year of long distance when she went to FSU while I stayed in Tampa, me driving to Tallahassee more weekends than not, both of us wondering if we were crazy to try. Then medical school at UF, where we were in different classes, still figuring out who we were individually while trying to be together. We didn’t even drink back then—just studied, completely focused, completely clueless about relationships.
Seven to eight years of dating between undergrad and med school. Nidhi used to joke that she could never marry anyone unless they were a doctor. (I never found that particularly funny, but what did I know?) Her family required either a Punjabi match or someone successful in their career. My family was Christian; hers was Sikh and Hindu. We had two separate weddings in one day and one exhaustingly long reception. Anyone who was there knows—it was one of the longest days of my life. It was also joyful, and I’m grateful we had it.
The Impossible Years
Then came residency at USF. And then—because we apparently enjoyed punishment—we had two babies during residency. Simran, then Sanjana. I don’t know how we survived it. The second pregnancy, especially, felt like the hardest thing we’d ever attempted. Two young children while I was in training and Nidhi was starting as an attending pediatrician at the University of Florida during my fellowship—we swore we’d never have more kids.
Fast forward to 2011 in Orlando. We were finally settling, finding our place, building a home and a community. Six or seven years passed. And then Nidhi got the itch.
She wanted a boy.
Now, if you ever want an hour-long lecture backed by legitimate research about how to conceive a boy, ask my wife. She studied it like she was preparing for boards. The science of X and Y chromosomes, the weight differential, timing, optimization—she had it all figured out. I learned some of it myself through osmosis, though I’ll walk out of any conversation about it now because she’ll give you the full dissertation.
And it worked. Twice. Syon and Saavan arrived, seven to eight years after their sisters, giving us a second chance to relive childhood. Most people have kids and move on. We got two generations—two girls now in high school/college, two boys in elementary school, two completely different phases of parenting happening simultaneously. Birthday parties, school events, the whole chaotic beautiful mess of it all over again.
I remember telling Nidhi she could have the boys, but I was writing up a contract: I wasn’t doing middle-of-the-night diaper changes. I was too busy with work. She signed without hesitation—she had two older daughters and her mother to help. (Though I did pitch in more than the contract technically required. I’m not a monster.)
Rising to Challenges
What amazes me most about Nidhi isn’t just that she raised four children. It’s what she did professionally while doing it.
She went from general pediatrics to pediatric hospice care at Vitas. I still don’t fully understand how she made that leap, but she did. Kids with terminal cancers, metabolic disorders, neurological syndromes, conditions incompatible with long life. The first few months nearly broke her, I think. But she found her purpose: caring for the families, ensuring those children had the best quality of life possible in whatever time remained. She excelled at something most doctors couldn’t emotionally handle.
Then she transitioned to complex care at Nemours—ICU-level patients in an outpatient setting. Kids with multiple organ system issues, chronic conditions requiring constant management. Another population most general pediatricians wouldn’t touch. Another challenge she met head-on.
Through all of this—the losses, the training, the impossible schedule, the four kids, the career transitions into the hardest corners of pediatrics—she remained the person who talks to everyone. The extrovert who makes connections everywhere she goes. The woman who, despite carrying grief that would sink others, chose to spend her career caring for the sickest, most vulnerable children and their families.
The Leap
There was a moment, not long ago, that still takes my breath away when I think about it. In late 2024, we both walked away from our full-time positions—Nidhi from Nemours, me from Orlando Health after fourteen years—with no safety net, no positions lined up, nothing guaranteed. Just a shared conviction that we needed to reclaim our time, for ourselves and for our family. It’s terrifying to step off the edge when you’ve spent three decades building a certain kind of security, when you have four children depending on you, when everything in your training tells you to hold on to what’s stable.
That decision—to just walk away—was perhaps the biggest act of faith in our entire marriage. Not faith that everything would work out perfectly, but faith in each other, and in the idea that life is too short to not take time for ourselves and our family. We jumped.. and never looked back. Now she’s channeling that same courage into entrepreneurship, building our 4Ever Young franchise with a passion for helping both men and women not just age gracefully, but thrive—looking and feeling their best as we extend our healthspan into those precious later years.
Three Decades
We’ve been together for three decades now. We grew up together, which is a kind way of saying we were both disasters who somehow didn’t destroy each other. We learned emotional intelligence the hard way, through fights and distance and two weddings in one day and sleepless nights with babies we swore we wouldn’t have.
She’s still the diamond I saw at eighteen, though she’s no longer in the rough. Time and trials polished her into something extraordinary—a mother, a physician, a woman who chooses the hardest paths because that’s where she’s needed most.
Happy birthday, Nidhi. Thank you for being patient with the stoic kid who just wanted to read and play basketball. Thank you for talking to everyone, for insisting on those boys, for signing my ridiculous contract, for building this impossible beautiful life with me.
We were young and stupid when we started. We’re older now, maybe slightly less stupid. And after three decades, I still see that diamond.
I’m grateful every day that you saw something worth staying for in me too.
With love, Sajeve
“At the end of the day, this second shift is about more than just work—it’s about building a life with purpose. I believe in the power of showing up fully across every spoke of life—career, family, health, finances, intellect, spirituality, and joy. This space is where I reflect, recalibrate, and keep striving for that delicate, worthwhile balance. I write not just to document the journey, but to remind myself—and maybe you too—that it’s okay to want more, to give more, and to grow through every season.” — st
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