he excitement of new beginnings was infectious. Four years of medical school and three years of residency had landed me my first job at the end of 2019 as a general practitioner caring for those experiencing homelessness in San Francisco. I was diagnosing, prescribing, ultrasound, and making connections with patients.

It often seemed my decisions boiled down to two options: hermetically seal myself into a fully isolated, contactless bubble or continue in-person work and put my fetus at risk as a Covid-exposing baby-killer.