Ashes Before the Ascent
An odyssey of building, breaking, and rising again
The stronger WHY I ever known
When we stepped out of the airport, it felt as if the world had suddenly expanded. We thought we were flying into New York City. We were in New Ark, New Jersey. We didn’t even know what New Jersey was.
Everything in America seemed oversized — the roads, the parking lots, the cars, the sky itself. I had imagined America as endless skyscrapers, walls of glass and concrete stretching to the clouds. But here were trees, quiet streets, and houses with porches — not so different from the ones I’d seen in Romanian villages, except… bigger, brighter, freer.
And the people — I thought they’d be superhumans, somehow different, untouchable. Instead, they smiled, they held doors, they laughed just like us. They were ordinary, and that made them even more extraordinary.
And here we were — two young dreamers from Romania, in love, determined, and armed with nothing but a tourist visa, four suitcases, and a dream so big it barely fit in the cold November air.
We had no plan for how, but we had the strongest why I’ve ever known.
The First Breakthroughs
Our first “home” was a converted garage behind a colonial house in Queens, thick with mold. Within a week, chance — or maybe destiny — opened a door, and we moved into a basement apartment with ceilings lower than our heads. We shared the space with a roommate, but to us, it was heaven.
Tudor began interviewing for a medical residency position across the country. Every time he returned, there was the same verdict: You can’t be hired without a work visa. His hope started to crumble. He talked about going back to Romania. I refused. I knew — deep in my bones — there had to be a way.
I scoured newspapers, circled job ads, and went to every interview I could find. Eventually, a company agreed to sponsor me for an H1 visa. Tudor became my dependent on an H4 visa, which still didn’t allow him to work. We lived on my salary, stretching every dollar.
And then, the miracle — Tudor won the U.S. Green Card Lottery. In that moment, our life opened wide. He was offered a residency in anesthesiology. I was hired at Chase Manhattan Bank and accepted into a graduate program at Columbia University.
The dream was real, and it was ours. The years that followed were a blur of achievement, challenges, blessings, and exhaustion. Tudor immersed himself in medicine; I immersed myself in my Chase Manhattan Bank career that became my training ground for strategy, discipline, and self-belief. I wasn’t just surviving there — I was competing with some of the sharpest minds in the country… and holding my own.
We dreamed of a family, but infertility treatments were long and brutal. Then, another miracle happened, a successful artificial insemination and Theodora arrived, a miracle indeed, wrapped in pink. 18 months later another miracle wrapped in pink arrived, Tiffany — a 9-pound and 5-once blessing who shared every Columbia University lecture with me from the comfort of my belly. As you can see, we had many miracles in our life and…….there were many more!
A Family Forged in Fire
Our home was blessed and overflowing with joy. Life was full. Life was rich. Life was ours.
We were building careers, making lifelong friends, and traveling whenever we could.
We moved to Maryland in 2001, into a beautiful home we built on a superb 2.5-acre lot surrounded by trees. Our life was filled with warmth, laughter, and the joy of watching our girls grow.
In December 2003, Tiffany—barely three years old—was diagnosed with leukemia. The three years that followed were a battlefield. Chemotherapy devoured her small body from the inside out. Steroids bloated her cheeks until she no longer recognized herself in the mirror. Her soft hair fell away in handfuls, drifting to the floor like silent confetti. Blood and platelet transfusions replaced bedtime stories, and I stood by the hospital bed, holding myself together as my heart threatened to burst from the agony of watching my child in such excruciating pain. We all know that blood is red, do you know that platelets are yellow? Theodora, not even 5 years old herself, watched it all. She saw the tubes, the needles, the way her sister suffered. She saw my tears when I thought no one was looking. And she learned far too young that sometimes life is cruel without explanation.
It was agony to watch Tiffany suffer, to see her constantly being a breath away from not being anymore, to see her spirit dim under the weight of pain she could not name. And yet, somehow, in the quiet moments between treatments and fear, I learned the true meaning of endurance—not from my own strength, but from theirs.
And somehow, we made it through — together.
No More Postponing Life
That battle changed us forever. We realized how fragile life really is, and we refused to waste any moment of it. After Tiffany’s treatment became manageable, we made a vow — no to postponing life.
We traveled constantly: national parks, foreign countries, new cities, road trips that stitched the four of us together in an unbreakable tapestry of memories. The world became our daughters’ classroom. Every trip was a memory in our souls’ bank, every moment a lesson in resilience and gratitude.
We didn’t postpone dreams anymore. We didn’t save “special” for later. Later wasn’t promised.
Our life wasn’t just about working hard and traveling hard — it was about building with purpose. During that time, Tudor and I, together, side by side, grew successful medical and real estate businesses and built a small church with the Romanian community. We were business partners as much as life partners, constantly reading, learning, attending conferences, helping others, giving back, and sharpening our minds for the next adventure.
And while our professional life thrived, I carried the full weight of our home. I ran the household alone — not just managing it but crafting it into a place of quality and care. We always had homemade dinners, fresh lunches, and a table that brought us together every night.
While Tudor advanced in his medical career, I built the real estate business from the ground up — one that served those society often overlooked: homeless individuals, veterans, single mothers. For decades, I navigated the complexities of helping people at their most vulnerable.
For these people, it wasn’t just housing; it was dignity, stability, a place to start again. Most of the time, it meant dealing with difficult tenants, hard stories, and people who carried their own storms into our doors. And yet, every key we handed over meant stability for someone who needed it, a home for young hearts, a home for extremely challenged people.
Over the decades, this business has taught me how to manage chaos and how to see humanity in every person — no matter their circumstance. In our own way, we were creating a legacy that combined success with service.
We grew together, not just in love, but in ambition. We read, brainstormed over dinners, and built successful ventures, always side by side. Our marriage was also a business partnership, each of us bringing our strengths to the table.
I was deeply involved in our daughters’ education — pushing for excellence, encouraging curiosity, and enrolling them in programs for Talented Youth. We carried our immigrant values into everything we did: no television, no sleepovers, no idle distractions. We raised our girls with the same values that had carried us across an ocean. Our home was filled with love, books, conversations, laughter, light, travel stories, and the belief that education is the most powerful passport a child can have. During the girls’ elementary school years, I loved volunteering at their school. Every Monday, for a year, I taught the kids Fry Phrases. Yes, an immigrant from Romania, speaking English as a second language, was being trusted with such a task. I loved those years!
We were raising the girls to think big, work hard, and never settle — the same way we had built our own lives.
The girls became competitive athletes — Tiffany in swimming, Theodora in tennis. We raised them with strong work ethic values and a deep love for books. Education and work were not optional — they were foundational.
A Body Rebuilt
In 2008, my own body reminded me that no matter how much you pour out for others, you must tend to your own flame.
My congenital heart defect — the one misdiagnosed in childhood — became life-threatening. At forty-two, with two young daughters, I was told I needed bypass surgery. The fear was suffocating. Nine hours in the operating room. My heart stopped for sixty-three minutes. Both my lungs medically collapsed for four hours.
And then — I woke up.
Alive. Rebuilt. A heart with an implant.
Recovery was slow, but it was also a kind of rebirth. I was still here. And I promised myself I would never again take my own strength for granted.
Surviving that surgery didn’t make me retreat into safety, it set me ablaze. I woke up with renewed urgency, as if my body’s clock had been reset, not to give me more time, but to remind me that every second counts. I became more determined than ever to live expansively, to see more, to do more, to leave a legacy that would outlast my own heartbeat.
From 2008 to 2014, we traveled extensively—across continents, through deserts and mountains, into cities lit like jewels and landscapes so vast they seemed to hold the horizon in their arms. We didn’t collect souvenirs; we collected moments and memories. Tiffany and Theodora learned about the world not from maps, but from the feel of foreign soil under their feet.
A Dream House, A Shattered Home
In 2014 and 2015, we began designing and building the house of our dreams in Annapolis—a home meant to stand as our American legacy. Every inch was deliberate: the curve of the staircase, the light falling through the windows at dawn, the way each room seemed to hold a piece of our story. I poured my heart into its creation, believing it would shelter generations.
But while our new home was rising from the ground, our “home” as a family was quietly collapsing. The hum of construction masked the sound of a deeper undoing. Behind the dust and blueprints, infidelity was dismantling the foundation I thought was unshakable.
After all the storms that we had weathered together and after all that we had built, I believed the life we created together is forever UNBREAKABLE. I was wrong. What remained was silence, grief, and a long stretch of empty space where my life used to be.
Infidelity. The unraveling of almost three decades of togetherness.
The life we had built — brick by brick, dream by dream — was suddenly in pieces. I lost more than a marriage. I lost my partner, my sense of home, the trust that had been the ground beneath my feet.
Who was I without us?
For years, I had been holding everything together — the home, the children, the businesses, the image of a perfect life. Overnight, the family unit I had fought to preserve was gone.
The loss wasn’t just personal — it was structural. The home, the traditions, the shared dreams… all gone. I was left staring at an empty space where my life used to be, asking questions I didn’t know how to answer.
I thought about the woman who had arrived in America with nothing but determination and love. I thought about the mother who had held her child through cancer and refused to give up.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t building. I was trying to survive. The days after the collapse were not days at all — they were fragments. Mornings that felt like nights. Nights that felt endless. I moved through my home like a shadow in a place I no longer belonged. The silence was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. Loneliness has a weight. It sits on your chest and makes even breathing feel like work.
I questioned everything — my choices, my worth, my future. I was surviving, not living.
I moved through days like a shadow of myself. I worked. I smiled at my daughters. I kept the house running, bills paid, meals on the table. From the outside, it might have looked like I was holding it together. But inside?
I was learning how to live in a world I no longer recognized.
Through Ashes Toward Ascent
There is a strange kind of loneliness that comes after a great unraveling. It’s not just about missing someone. It’s about missing the person you used to be before everything broke. And yet, in that emptiness and after quite many years, I started noticing something.
A flicker.
A whisper.
The faintest sense that maybe, somehow, I wasn’t done yet. It didn’t happen all at once.
There was no thunderclap, no sudden rush of clarity.
It began with small things — a sunrise that made me pause, a book that stirred something long asleep, a conversation that reminded me the world was still vast and full of places I hadn’t seen.
I started to remember the woman I was before all happened. Not the same — never the same — but someone who still had dreams left to chase.
Travel called me again. Movement. Exploration. The reminder that the world was wide and my story was not over. It wasn’t about escaping the pain. It was about expanding beyond it. Proving to myself that there was still beauty, still wonder, still wild, unclaimed pieces of life waiting for me — if I dared to step toward them.
And so, without fully realizing it, I began charting a new path. One that would carry me to the farthest parts of the Earth. One that would test not just my body, but the resilience of my soul.
Closing Reflection
This chapter of my life was mountains and valleys, sunrises and storms, laughter around the dinner table and tears I cried alone in the dark.
I came to America with nothing but a suitcase, a man I loved, and a belief that the impossible was possible. I built a life here — brick by brick, dream by dream — until it towered like a cathedral. And then, in one brutal moment, the walls came crashing down.
But here’s what I know now:
The fall did not erase the climb.
The collapse did not cancel the beauty that came before.
And the emptiness that followed made room for something new
The woman who would one day stand in Antarctica — staring at the largest iceberg in the world — was forged here, in the fire of both triumph and loss. Without this decade, there could have been no rebirth
This chapter of my life — the success, the height, the collapse, and the ascent — was both a triumph and a crucible. It showed me that you can have everything and still lose it, and that the loss doesn’t have to be the end. The truth is my rebirth in Antarctica couldn’t have happened without this chapter. The fall gave the rise its meaning.
The trilogy ends here, but the truth is, it was never three separate stories. It was always one.
Lessons I Learned
Dreams are worth climbing even if you fall.
Partnership is powerful, but self-reliance is essential.
Success without service feels hollow; give back as you rise.
Loss clears the space for transformation, if you let it.
You can survive more than you think — but thriving is a choice.
The ember of who you are can never be fully extinguished.
Your story is never finished — only paused between chapters.
Invitation to Begin Your Ascent
If my story stirred something in you—an ember you’ve carried quietly through your own losses—maybe this is your moment to rise.
Ask yourself:
What ashes in my life can I transform into fuel for growth?
Where am I being invited to rise, even if I feel broken?
What step can I take today to move toward my own ascent?
Write your answers. Act on one. Watch how the smallest step upward changes your horizon.
If you’re ready to design a life beyond survival, DM me the word ASCENT. I’ll personally share the first step of my Live by Design coaching framework and walk beside you as you rise.
Life is too sacred to stay in ashes. Let’s ascend together.
Until the next horizon,
Coach • Traveler • Believer in Intentional Living
