RP
Rao Psychiatry
Thoughtful Care. Personalized for you.
MY STORY & APPROACH
THREE DECADES IN MEDICINE
Why Psychiatry
My relationship with medicine began in 1991 and has now spanned more than three decades, with nearly 30 years as a physician. My path has crossed countries, languages, cultures, and medical systems, each of which has shaped the way I understand health, illness, and the person seeking care.
I grew up in Delhi in an Army family and attended medical school in Ukraine. I subsequently practiced medicine in India before coming to the United States, where I earned a Master of Public Health at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and worked as an epidemiologist in Houston. I later returned to clinical medicine and completed five years of psychiatric training at UT Southwestern Medical Center in Dallas: three years in adult psychiatry followed by a two-year fellowship in child and adolescent psychiatry.
What does it mean to get better?
Is the goal of psychiatry to create a life without adversity?
The sun is meant to shine, and human beings are meant to encounter difficulty. Loss, disappointment, uncertainty, conflict, failure, and change are not necessarily evidence that something has gone wrong. They are also part of being alive.
My hope is not to take every battle away from my patients. It is to help equip them to meet those battles with greater clarity, flexibility, courage, and resilience.
At times, treatment means relieving symptoms that have become overwhelming. At other times, it means learning to tolerate discomfort rather than immediately escaping it; accepting what cannot be changed; repairing what can; and discovering that we are capable of carrying more than we thought.
Avoidance may bring relief in the moment, but it rarely builds strength. Good treatment should not only help us feel better. It should help us become better able to live.
The work I value
The therapeutic relationship works best when there is mutual respect and a willingness to be curious—even when the conversation is difficult.
I value patients who are willing, over time, to examine their own patterns, consider perspectives other than their own, take responsibility where appropriate, and remain open to growth. None of this requires perfection. Anger, defensiveness, mistakes, ambivalence, and conflict can all become meaningful parts of treatment when we are willing to think about them together.
What is more difficult to work with is a persistent pattern of hostility or disrespect, or an unwillingness to engage in any degree of self-reflection. In those circumstances, my style of practice may not be the right fit.
I am not looking for patients without struggles. I am looking for people willing to engage with them.
Beyond the office
I am proudly fluent in Hindi and Russian. And yes, I have an accent. After a life lived across continents and languages, it belongs to no single place. I think of it simply as the sound of a life that has crossed boundaries.
Outside of medicine, I am drawn to experiences that invite curiosity and reflection. I enjoy thought-provoking reading, particularly books that explore consciousness, uncertainty, human potential, and the nature of reality.
I find joy in contemplative gardening and the quiet companionship of the natural world—talking to the trees, noticing the insects, and remaining fascinated by the life unfolding around me. I am also drawn to purposeful travel, particularly spiritual pilgrimages, where stepping outside the familiar creates space for reflection, learning, and a deeper connection to the world and to oneself.
What shaped me
My path did not begin with medical school. It began generations earlier, in a family shaped by displacement, service, resilience, and an enduring responsibility toward others. At the time of Partition in 1947, my family was forced from what became Pakistan and began again as refugees in India. That history of rebuilding a life without losing one's sense of purpose became part of the inheritance passed down to me.
My paternal grandfather was both a physician and a farmer—a self-made man who built his life through work, resourcefulness, and service. My grandmother lived her values much more quietly. It was only at her funeral, when scores of villagers arrived to pay their respects, that her family fully understood how many people she had been helping, privately and without recognition, throughout her adult life. From them came an early lesson that has stayed with me: a meaningful life does not require an audience.
On my mother's side, my grandfather was an Army Major loved the arts and performed as a stage actor in his free time—a reminder that strength and sensitivity, discipline and creativity, can coexist within the same person.
And then there were my parents.
My father, a retired Colonel in the Indian Army, was extraordinarily generous and joyful. He knew little sense of “mine”—if someone needed the last rupee in his wallet, he would give it. His friendships crossed every walk of life, and his energy, warmth, and infectious laughter drew people to him. My mother was his steady counterpart: kind, tolerant, patient, hardworking, and a stalwart source of support for our family.
From my father, I learned something about generosity, joy, and living without holding too tightly to what we think is ours. From my mother, I learned about patience, loyalty, endurance, and the strength that does not need to announce itself.
Together, they taught me that strength can be exuberant or quiet, that generosity can be a way of living, and that the lives we ultimately influence may be a more meaningful legacy than anything we accumulate.