I am a pediatrician. I am a mother. And now, a grandmother. These identities don’t always move in harmony.

When I learned my twin granddaughters had been born at home, the physician in me reacted immediately. My mind began cataloging risks, reviewing worst-case scenarios, mentally scanning for everything that could have gone wrong.

The grandmother in me, however, was called to show up differently: with love, not fear. With presence, not panic. With trust, not control.

As a pediatrician, a home birth is not the choice I would recommend. My medical training offers a long list of reasons why. But this wasn’t my decision to make. In fact, my opinion wasn’t asked.

In medicine, we’re taught that giving guidance is a form of caring. That our job is to advise, to warn, to intervene. We learn to rely on our knowledge as a kind of shield, a way to keep others safe. When those we love choose a different path, or don’t want our input at all, it can feel like rejection.

In this case, there was no crisis. Everything turned out well. But that didn’t make the internal reckoning any easier.

I used to think I could compartmentalize these parts of myself: pediatrician in the clinic, grandmother at home. That’s not how it works. I am always both. The real wisdom lies in choosing, moment to moment, which part to lead with.

In this moment, I chose love and connection. That is my role as a mother and grandmother. Choosing this wasn’t simple. It required presence and humility. It meant noticing my urge to protect, to advise, to step in (and choosing not to). It meant allowing others to have their own journey, even if it looked wildly different from the one I would have chosen or recommended. Even if the risk was high and I thought I was right.

It’s clear that many other physicians have faced and/or are facing this same inner conflict. And not infrequently. Aging parents often resist our recommendations. Adult children often navigate pregnancy, illness, or parenting in ways that diverge from our training. Our friends want our expertise but not our judgment. Sometimes we’re asked for our opinion and then disregarded. Sometimes we’re never asked at all. Other times, despite being asked, we wish we hadn’t been. It’s disorienting terrain unless we shift our definition of what it means to show up well.

What if our presence is the point? Not our advice. Not our data. Not our decades of training. What if the most generous thing we can offer is trust and love? The quiet belief that others can navigate their own path, and that we can be beside them without steering.

Letting go doesn’t mean detaching. It means staying deeply connected without needing control. It means recognizing that not every decision will go the way we think it should, and that many still end beautifully.

There is also grief. Grief that our health care system is so broken that even those who trust science, who love and respect us, choose to seek care outside of it. Grief that we gave so much to a system that often fails the people we love.

To help me navigate with more grace and compassion, I’ve found myself asking myself: “What would love do?”

This is a question I use in all aspects of my life. I have found it transformative. So much so, that the week these grandchildren were born I gave a TEDx talk on it. I had no idea I would be leaning into it so heavily myself.

Love would listen.
Love would stay steady.
Love would trust.
Love might speak, but gently.
Love doesn’t demand to be right.
Love is simply present.

This doesn’t mean I’ll never offer medical guidance. It means I’ll do it with care, neutrality, and compassion. It means I’ll speak from a place of respect, not righteousness. When I show up with love and connection, I am much more likely to be asked for my wisdom.

We don’t have to abandon our medical identity to be loving family members. We just don’t have to lead with it. Our degrees are not proof of love. Our silence is not neglect. Sometimes, the greatest gift we can offer is simply to be there, grounded and compassionate.

That’s what love would do.

Jessie Mahoney is a board-certified pediatrician, certified coach, mindfulness and yoga teacher, and the founder of Pause & Presence Coaching & Retreats. After nearly two decades as a physician leader at the Permanente Medical Group/Kaiser, she stepped outside the traditional medical model to reimagine what sustainable well-being in health care could look like. She can also be reached on Facebook and Instagram.

Dr. Mahoney’s work challenges the culture of overwork and self-sacrifice in medicine. She helps physicians and leaders cultivate clarity, intention, and balance—leveraging mindfulness, coaching, yoga, and lifestyle medicine to create deep and lasting change. Her CME retreats offer a transformative space for healing, self-discovery, and renewal.

As co-host of the podcast, Healing Medicine, she brings self-compassion and presence into the conversation around modern medical practice. A sought-after speaker and consultant, she partners with organizations to build more human-centered, sustainable, and inspired medical cultures.

Dr. Mahoney is a graduate of Dartmouth College and the University of California, San Francisco, School of Medicine.