In clinical trials, we measure outcomes, response rates, and survival. But after 20 years in hematology-oncology research, I’ve come to understand that what drives many patients to move forward is something we don’t measure at all.

It’s hope.

And for me, that understanding began long before my career, in the life of my father.

There are moments in life when things don’t go the way I planned, when something falls apart, when I feel overwhelmed, or when I question whether I have the strength to keep going. And in those moments, I think of my father.

My father immigrated from the Soviet Union in 1989, as the Iron Curtain was lifting. He left behind everything he knew in Odessa, the “Pearl by the Sea,” a beautiful city along the Black Sea, full of life, history, and connection to the world beyond. He did it for one reason: to give his children a better life. A life with freedom. A life with opportunity.

He came to the United States with nothing. No connections, no safety net. Just responsibility and determination. He worked whatever he could to build a life for us. He drove a cab. He worked as a limo driver. Long hours, exhausting days, doing whatever it took to provide.

I remember when my brother was born. I would take him out for walks so my father could sleep before his night shifts. Sleep was a luxury he rarely had.

One day, he came home with an injured back after lifting heavy suitcases while working. The pain was so severe he could barely walk. To get home, he had to cross the railroad tracks, but he couldn’t stand upright. So he got down on his knees and slowly made his way across.

That image stayed with me. It still does.

When my grandfather was in the hospital, my father had to leave him to go to work. When he came back, his father had already passed away. He never got to say goodbye.

And yet, despite everything, my father carried one belief: everything will be OK.

Years later, while working in a hematology-oncology clinical research unit, I met a patient I will never forget. He was undergoing chemotherapy when I first spoke with him about a clinical trial. He listened quietly, taking everything in, and chose to move forward.

He had been a photographer. During his treatment, he covered the walls of his hospital room with photographs he had taken, places he had traveled, moments he had captured. What was once a sterile space became something alive. A life still unfolding.

He told me, “I’ll finish treatment, and then I’ll travel again. I want to take more pictures of beautiful places.”

He had a future in his mind that still existed beyond that hospital room. And no matter what he was going through, he would say: “Everything is fine. Everything will be OK.”

In that moment, I realized I had heard those words before. From my father.

In clinical research, we often focus on what we can measure. But what I’ve learned, from both my father and my patients, is that sometimes the most powerful force behind every decision to keep going is something we cannot quantify.

In my life, there are moments I would not have overcome without what my father gave me. His resilience became mine. His mindset became my foundation.

Today, I see the results of everything he worked for. My sister was accepted into law school. My brother became a successful dentist. And I built my path in clinical research, helping bring treatments to patients who are still holding on to hope.

Different paths. One foundation. The belief he gave us, that no matter what happens, everything will be OK.

And now, it is something I carry forward. Something I want to pass on to my daughter. Because sometimes, what carries us forward is not certainty. It’s belief.

Papa, thank you so much.

Regina Portnoy is a clinical research professional.