It all started with a bear.
In 2022, my cousin and I hiked into Sequoia National Park for the first time and nothing prepares you for that moment when the trees simply become too large to make sense. Ancient and silent, they rise hundreds of feet into the Sierra sky, and you feel, without quite meaning to, very small.
It was supposed to be just another weekend escape into nature. Over the past few years we had spent nearly every free weekend exploring every nook and cranny California had to offer: Tahoe, Yosemite, Death Valley, Big Sur, Joshua Tree. Living in a state with that much beauty at your fingertips felt almost unfair, like being left unsupervised in an ice cream shop. We were never ones to let a good thing go to waste.
We drove in early, quickly set up camp along a quiet stream, and were off on an easy trail toward Tokopah Falls with daypacks on our backs before the morning had fully settled. If you've never been, it's the kind of storybook forest that draws you in through tall shadowy trees and then opens without warning into lush meadows bursting with wildflowers and tall grass cradled under the granite peaks. It is the kind of place where time seems to forget itself and minutes pass in decades.
As the waterfall came into view, my spirits could not have been lighter and I could not have felt more at peace. This was where I belonged, I thought, in this place, in this moment. It was then that I saw the look on my cousin's face and heard the rustling of leaves behind me. I turned, and not five feet from where I stood, was a bear. It had rumbled its way onto the trail, heading up the mountain. It turned its black head in my direction and I looked into its obsidian eyes. Time, life, everything stood still. My heart began to beat with a force and speed the likes of which I had never known but for some reason, I knew it was not the bear I should be afraid of.
Across many Native American cultures, the bear is a medicine being; a symbol of strength, wisdom, and healing. I would soon find out that that bear was trying to tell me something.
And as quickly as he came, the bear turned its head and disappeared into the bushes, making its way up the mountain. But my heart would not slow down. It raced and stuttered in my chest and panic set in fast. I looked to my cousin, who could see the fear on my face, and we both knew it was time to get back to camp. We were close, only a couple of miles, but in that moment it might as well have been another planet. Each step brought new questions: grave, dark thoughts that I, at thirty-seven, did not think myself capable of. Is my body failing me? Is this it? Is this how I go?
Eventually, with the help of my cousin, we made it back to camp and I collapsed in exhaustion. Whatever had happened had passed, for now, but it had left me shook. I knew I needed to get to a doctor.
As soon as I got back to Los Angeles I scheduled an appointment with my GP, Dr. Alan Lee at UCLA Health. After hearing my symptoms he gave me an ECG, and just like that I had a diagnosis — atrial fibrillation, or AFib, a condition where the heart beats irregularly and, left unchecked, can be life threatening. This was on a Friday. By Monday I was sitting across from an incredible cardiologist, Dr. Hacobian, who put me on blood thinners and scheduled a cardioversion. He was kind, confident, and reassuring in the way you desperately need a doctor to be when the ground has just shifted beneath you. Unfortunately the cardioversion didn't take, and I was referred to Dr. Macias, an electrophysiologist who shared that same steady confidence. He believed that a cryo-ablation could get my AFib under control and something about the way he said it made me believe it too.
To be honest it was all a bit overwhelming. The thought of having a heart procedure at such a young age can be frightening. It makes you question everything and at the same time can put so much more in perspective. There was so much that I didn't know, but the one thing I didn't doubt was the team at UCLA who would get me through this.
On February 28th, 2023, my dad's seventieth birthday, I had a successful cryoablation at UCLA and on March 1st I left the hospital to start a whole new chapter of my life.
Heart disease runs in my family, but when you're active and healthy and in your thirties — your thirties is still young — you don't think it will ever come for you. I thought I was immune. I wasn't reckless with my life, but I had never truly stopped to reflect on my place in it. Sometimes it takes a moment like this to pull the blindfold off and see, really see, how extraordinary the world around us is. How lucky we are to still be in it.
I realize now how lucky I am. I've never loved the phrase "heart disease survivor" because honestly, between the team at UCLA and organizations like the American Heart Association, I always felt like it was going to be ok. That's not naivety. That's what happens when the science, the technology, and the people are all working in your favor. The resources available to patients today made an enormous difference in how I fought AFib and how I continue to fight it.
This is why I'm here today, running in the 2026 New York City Marathon on Team Heart & Stroke, and giving back to an organization that means so much to me. When I was searching for information on a-fib the American Heart Association's website was my bible. Whenever I felt myself needing more clarification or a story from a survivor I came here and it brought me peace. But the organization is so much more than that.
The American Heart Association has spent decades funding the research, education, and emergency response training that saves lives like mine. Surviving AFib isn't just luck, it's the result of science and awareness that the AHA helped make possible. They're behind the breakthroughs in treatment, the CPR training that equips everyday people to act in a crisis, and the advocacy that keeps heart health a national priority. For the millions of us who've felt our hearts betray us, the AHA isn't just a charity, it's the reason many of us are still here.
I truly appreciate you taking the time to share in this journey with me and your generosity in supporting this amazing organization.
There are so many people I want to thank. My parents, first, for their constant love and support and kindness to me over the years. My girlfriend, Clara, who helps me see the beauty in continuing to live with purpose and joy. My sister, Maryellen and her husband Rich. My cousin Emil, for helping me get through one of the most difficult moments of my life with calmness and grace and love. All my cousins and aunts and uncles who continue to believe in me. My biological family, the Defrancesco's and Brittany, who have accepted me and has taught me so much about who I am. Saulo and Roxo, who right after my surgery took me in and reminded me all the reasons why this life is so worth living. All my friends, from Brazil, California, Singapore, and all over who have shown me that bumps in the road are just that and there is so much more still to go.
And to all the doctors and medical staff who have given me the strength to not be defined by a disease and to trust in the power of science and modern medicine.
Dr. Alan C Lee UCLA
Dr. Melkon Hacobian UCLA
Dr. Carlos Macias UCLA
Dr. Larry A. Chinitz NYU
Dr. Mauricio Scanavacca Albert Einstein Sao Paulo
Dr. Erich Wedam Johns Hopkins
Brittney Murray Johns Hopkins
