We drank champagne out of disposable cups last Saturday.
There was no fancy glassware. No caterer. Just our small team, standing in our brand new space on Crenshaw Blvd after an afternoon of laughter, an energy cleansing, a blessing — and finally, a quiet moment that was just ours. Lindsey had flown in all the way from Michigan to be there. The room still smelled like sage and fresh paint. And when it came time to raise our little plastic cups, these were the words that came out:
“I hope in another six years, we get to know ourselves just a little bit more than we do today.”
It surprised me, actually. You’d think at the start of a new chapter you’d wish for success. Growth. Fulfillment. But standing there in that empty room with this team — this particular group of humans who chose to be here — what I found myself thinking about wasn’t the future at all.
It was the past six years that led us here.
Some of you have been with us almost since the beginning. You’ve watched IPWC grow from an idea I couldn’t stop talking about into a tiny rented room, then a real clinic, and now this — a space that finally feels like what I always saw in my head but couldn’t quite build yet. You’ve met our team members over the years. You’ve noticed when someone new appeared to greet your pet, or when a familiar face was no longer there. You’ve trusted us through every version of ourselves.
I want to tell you something I’ve never really said out loud to our IPWC family before.
When I set out to build this practice, I had a dream that I’d hire one team — and that team would stay together forever. We’d grow side by side. We’d build something permanent. I’d create the kind of healing space that I’d never found in all my years working in other veterinary practices — a place where the team felt like home and nobody had to leave.
Here’s what six years taught me: that’s not how growth works.
The truth is, every person who has been part of the IPWC team brought something that shaped who we are today. Their compassion, their quirks, their talents, their way of holding a nervous cat or calming a worried pet parent — all of it became part of our DNA. And when the time came for them to move on, it didn’t mean something was broken. It meant that life was doing what life does.
Sometimes an organization outgrows a person. Sometimes a person outgrows an organization. Neither one is anyone’s fault. It’s just what a growth journey looks like when you’re honest about it — and I’d rather be honest about it than pretend that everything stays the same forever, because it doesn’t. With each new version of this team, there’s been a different chemistry, a different energy. IPWC has always been a vessel that carries that energy forward, but it has never been a fixed thing. It’s alive. It changes. And that’s what makes it real.
In that spirit, I want to share that Gina has completed her last week with us.
Those of you who’ve met Gina already know what I’m about to say. Her genuine compassion for your pets — the way she held them, spoke to them, cared about them as if they were her own — was something truly special. She brought a gentle, loving presence to our team that we will miss deeply.
We wish her nothing but the best as she continues her journey to find what’s next for her. And I want her to know, as I want every person who has ever been part of this team to know: you left a mark on this place that stays long after you’ve gone. Thank you, Gina. 💜
You know, it would be easy to focus on who’s left and feel the ache of that. I’d be lying if I said transitions like these are painless. They’re not. But here’s what I’ve come to understand — and I think this applies to all of us, not just those of us running a veterinary practice:
Every ending is making room for a new possibility. Not a replacement. A possibility. Something that couldn’t have existed if everything had stayed the same.
The tides come in and the tides go out. The seasons change. And life, somehow, always figures it out.
So here we are. A new space. A team that is exactly who it’s supposed to be right now. And a community — you — who has been part of this story from the very beginning.
As I reflect on who I am today compared to who I was six years ago, I almost don’t recognize her. That version of me didn’t know she had the courage to build something like this. She didn’t know she could lead a team, make hard decisions, hold space for grief and healing in the same afternoon, and still show up the next morning ready to do it again. She didn’t know any of that was inside her.
But I think — and this is what I keep coming back to — I think it was always there. I think all of it was always there, waiting. I didn’t become someone new. I just finally found the parts of myself that had been missing for a long time.
It’s like coming home to yourself, really.
And maybe that’s what this whole journey is. Not becoming something different. But finding your way back to who you were always meant to be — and building a life, a practice, a community that reflects that.
That’s what IPWC is to me. That’s what you — our families — are to me.
Thank you for growing with us. Thank you for trusting us through every chapter, every change, every version of this team. And thank you for being here at the start of this new one.
Here’s to the next 6 years. And to knowing ourselves just a little bit better when we get there. 🦄💜
With love, Dr. Lily
