Providers & Staff

One Heart

I have delayed this message for eight months because I was in a dark place following my last two surgeries in December and February. I apologize for the lack of clarity. Now again in the light, I want to express my sincerest and deepest gratitude for the life you have given me. For the honor and privilege and indescribable responsibility you have bestowed upon me.

Twenty five years ago, I was brought to Sandy Hook to practice alongside my best friend and colleague. We built something together. And then life, in its brutal clarity, took that away. My body fractured. And within months of that fracture, our community fractured too. The deaths at Sandy Hook Elementary School occurred just a handful of months after my paralysis. I was learning to walk again—or rather, learning to accept that I would never walk normally— when the loss of life, the only lives I have ever lost in my career, brought me to my knees.

This is what I learned.

Three decades of pediatrics taught me to Live—Love—Learn—Laugh—Listen—Lead. Not in the order you may think or that we are taught, but in the order we actually live.

You cannot live if you don’t listen. You cannot listen if you cannot laugh at yourself—as I have many times in an exam room acting and being ridiculous. You cannot laugh unless you love—and I truly loved your children, not as abstractions, but as the specific, irreplaceable persons they are. You cannot love without living fully in the present moment. And living fully allows you to learn. Learning clarifies what you can control and what you cannot. Everything else simply follows.

Babies still make me cry. After nearly thirty years, they still do. Two cells become a living human with infinite potential. There is something inexplicable and unknowable in that transformation. I have never grown past that, never wanted to. The energy instilled in a child—the force that makes them who they are—is forever. Energy does not disappear. It changes form. It is unique to each of us. It moves through us, between us, around us. You can feel it in a newborn’s grip. You can see it in a child’s eyes when they recognize you and smile. You can sense it in a room when a family holds their baby for the first time or says goodbye for the last time. Whatever that energy is—call it life, spirit, potential, love—it remains. Changed by time, expressed differently by each person, but it remains around us, if not part of us. You can feel it.

No pediatrician in my position could ever fail to acknowledge how the school shooting tore our community apart. I will not be defined by that darkness. I choose to be defined by my love of the color purple. I choose butterflies, horses, whales, and dolphins. I choose kindness and neurodiversity. I choose the memory of our children as they were, not by how they were taken. I remember them. I speak out and will continue to act. I forget the day. I choose laughter as it is the best medicine; and I’d rather laugh and lose than win and want.

We started on Mount Pleasant Road with a vision. When my health and our community fractured, the practice fractured with it—we separated paths. My respect for our shared practice of pediatrics could never be questioned; nor would I ever question it. I never felt that I was on my own; many followed, many stayed. I owe a debt of gratitude to Peggy and Charlene. We would not be diminished. We adapted. I learned that separation is not defeat; it brings clarity of vision and reveals what you are meant to do.

The practice was rebuilt on a different foundation but never weakened. We moved from Queen Street to the little blue house on Church Hill Road. Then when it made sense—when the weight of carrying alone grew too heavy, we merged again. When hospital pediatricians and nurse practitioners were left without positions, we opened our doors welcoming their practice and their families. We moved again. Almost instantly, the pandemic came. We adapted again. The practice grew, but it never outgrew me. I grew, and grew older because of it; but I will never grow up.

Each separation, each merger, and every move reminded me that you do not stay by staying still. Kristen originally joined me as an LPN with a quiet competence. As an LPN, then obtaining her RN and BSN, then becoming an APRN. She became the soul of the practice to Peggy’s heart. Though I name only a few of those with whom I had the honor to work, to employ, and to work for, the unnamed are not—nor ever will be—forgotten. Each of you has left an indelible mark on my soul and every patient has filled a portion of my heart.

The practice continued to grow because, together, we were able to move forward—not from weakness, but from a commitment to each other. Not from certainty, but from a willingness to listen and respond. After two and a half decades, I entrusted the ship to Kristen—not because I relented or because I was weak, but because the work was bigger and more important than I was, and the ocean too vast that I, alone, could never navigate.

While I am stepping back from daily practice, I am not stepping away from pediatrics. I remain accessible to families who seek counsel. I will be writing a book, because parenting— like pediatrics—is not a destination but a practice; and every parent and every child deserves to know that they are not alone in their uncertainty. I am teaching. I am writing. I am here. I am listening.

I have lived because I was able to listen to you. Laugh with you. Learn from you. Love your children—not perfectly, not without doubt, but genuinely. And you gave me the extraordinary privilege of helping to lead you, while being led by you in return.

I have held your fear. I have tried to remain steady during uncertainty. I ask you to remember that laughter and love are sometimes the only bridge across these unbearable moments. I learned this with you.

I came here the same way I leave here. I will continue to live, love, learn, listen, and lead—and most importantly I will definitely continue to laugh.

To the families who trusted me: your children have forever changed who I am as a physician and as a person. The responsibility you gave me shaped not just my career, but my character. That is a debt that can never be paid; though it will forever be honored and cherished. Thank you.

Babies still make me cry. I still hold them in awe, and I will always be inspired by the children and adults they have or will become That will never change. Be kind. Be present. Be well.

Forever grateful,
Rick Auerbach
Pediatrician
Sandy Hook, Connecticut