Hello everyone. This is my first time speaking in front of this group, so thank you for the opportunity.

My name is Timothy Bilash. I’ve lived in this area of San Diego for about fifteen years now, and this is the first group that’s asked me to speak. Last week, some of you may remember, I mentioned that I grew up not talking very much — and now I try to make up for it whenever I get the chance.

You don’t really need to know a lot about me, although I could tell you many things. The word that comes to mind first is science. I’ve thought of myself as a scientist since about seventh grade, and I owe whatever I’ve been able to do professionally to mentors along the way — starting as early as elementary school.

Another important word is medicine. I’m a board-certified OB-GYN and have been practicing for over 32 years. I deliver babies and take care of women’s health.

I also like low-tech tools — pencil and paper. As a scientist and physicist by training, I still love blackboards, chalk, and simple ways of thinking things through.

I debated all week whether to talk about what I think is important or to talk about who I am. Who I am isn’t that important — it’s really just a path through history — but I’ll share a little context.

I earned my MD from the University of Illinois in a dual-degree program, along with a master’s degree in physics. My undergraduate degree was from the State University of New York at Albany.

I’ve done research, published, lectured, and worked across disciplines including endocrinology, physiology, immunology, microbiology, nutrition, and surgery.

I also advocate for a healthcare system that supports patients, physicians, and nurses rather than marginalizing them.

But what I really want to talk about is something I call the kindness of strangers.

When you’re in medical school, around your third or fourth year, you start applying for residency programs. I was doing an OB-GYN externship in Irvine and had an interview scheduled at the University of Colorado. I was driving through Utah early on a Sunday morning — long stretches of road, forty miles between exits. I was tired, lost concentration, drifted off the road, and punctured both tires on the left side of my car.

I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. No cell service. No money in my checking account or on my credit card. The interview was the next morning.

A van drove past me. Then, some time later, that same van came back.

A father and his two children got out. They told me they’d seen me, driven thirty miles to the next exit, turned around, and come back to help. They took me into town, where the only open gas station happened to be an Amoco — which mattered because I had an Amoco card. The station attendant went out, towed my car, replaced the tires, and I didn’t pay a penny.

I made it to my interview.

I didn’t end up training in Colorado — I went to Albany Medical Center in upstate New York — but I honestly don’t know what would have happened without those people.

My life has been a series of kindnesses by strangers.

What you can know about me comes from science, yes — but I am also my father, my grandparents, and the people who came before me. My family comes from what is now Ukraine. They never gave up. My father fought in World War II, came home with an 80% disability, and lived his life with resilience and dignity. I honor him every day.

That’s really everything you need to know about me.

Thank you.