Built Like a Home, Run Like a Business

At Dr. Daria Milton’s clinics, care starts with the staff—not just the patients.

On Friday morning, the phones go quiet. Calls are transferred, screens light up, and 47 employees across four South Texas offices—Rio Grande City, Escobares, Zapata, and the posh Pediatric Care Center Corporate Office—log into Zoom for an in-house training.

Lili Ojeda, the Administrative Director, is what happens when you mix tough love with just a sprinkle of casual Friday. She has a pleasant BRF—calm, composed, and unreadable in the best way. At the corporate office, I sit quietly in the back on a plush sofa, like a school principal observing a kindergarten classroom.

At twelve sharp, the meeting starts with a bang.

“Is everybody logged in?” she asks the monitor. Zapata and Rio Grande City are still having issues.

Lili doesn’t waste time. She appears on screen with the energy of a federal agent. Commanding. Serious. I can’t help but compare her to TikToker Jocelyn Valenzuela. Lili eerily resembles Doña Reclamos. (If you know, you know.)

All four offices eventually log in, their faces stacked like a corporate version of Hollywood Squares. The training is on customer service—something that sounds gentle but is delivered with military precision.

All four offices eventually log in, their faces stacked like a corporate version of Hollywood Squares. The training is on customer service—something that sounds gentle but is delivered with military precision.

“First impressions matter, girls!” she says. And she means it. Lili doesn’t make suggestions. She makes demands.

“I need everybody to be on the same page,” she tells her receptionists. “Not one, not two—I need a choir in that clinic when parents walk in.”

“Do we all understand?” she asks, her voice booming.

She goes over patient interaction. Communication. Testy parents. Empathy. Concerns. Expectations. Hungry kids.

“There are snacks in the lobby,” she reminds them. “Give them a smack.” The Zoom room erupts. “A snack! Give them a snack,” she corrects, laughing—but she doesn’t let the moment linger.

One employee is already coloring her handout in blood-red ink like a teacher grading papers. Another taps her foot like she’s working through a set list. There’s the highlighter addict. And, of course, the yawner—five minutes in and already acting like she’s recovering from Coachella, not attending pediatric training.

There will be nine more “Do we all understand?” before the hour is done.

Lili’s training is sharp. People are called by name, corrected directly, and moved along with no drama. There’s no shaming—just clarity. And weirdly, it works. Expectations are high, but the energy in the room isn’t fear. It’s alignment.

After the final “Do we all understand?” corporate employees head to the breakroom where Whataburger bags are waiting.

That’s it for Friday. No one is offended. No one is singled out. Everyone goes back to their job knowing exactly what’s expected.

Dr. Daria Milton didn’t come from privilege. She was raised by a single mother in the military and later by her grandmother. Strength wasn’t suggested—it was required. She graduated in the top four of her high school class, put herself through college, and eventually, med school.

Nothing came easy. Everything came with sacrifice.

Her first pediatric office was built on that sacrifice. Then came a second. Then a third. Her corporate office in Rio Grande City is now the crown jewel—with custom wood chairs, champagne for special occasions, and a heated toilet seat. There’s even a Starbucks machine in the breakroom—for crying out loud.

But none of it—none of it—is for her.

It’s for her employees. It’s her way of saying thank you to the people who help carry the vision. From the front desk staff to the nurses to the billing team—Dr. Milton knows who keeps it running. And she shows her appreciation without hesitation.

Her office culture isn’t about perks. It’s about allegiance. You’ve got my back, I’ve got yours. It’s about building what her younger self never had. Even now, running an entire network of pediatric care, she hasn’t lost her grit.

By Tuesday, I’m back in the same plush seat. Lili is here, but she’s not leading. Dr. Milton—Dr. B—is at the head of the table.

Every Tuesday, Dr. B meets with all 47 employees—individually or in small groups, in-person or over Zoom. Her six admins gather at corporate, notebooks ready, phones silenced. No shortcuts. No mass emails. Just real meetings with real people.

Today’s agenda is 12 pages—front and back. By 11 a.m., Dr. B looks up and asks the only question that matters: “What’s for lunch?”

No salads.

Fried country steak from Rio Café. Gravy, rolls, sweet tea. This is Texas, after all.

But even as the plates arrive, the meetings continue. Appointments are reviewed. Concerns are addressed. Protocols are fine-tuned. Every detail matters. Every person gets a moment. Dr. B doesn’t avoid the hard conversations—she leans in.

It’s exhausting just watching her. But she never looks tired.

She looks locked in.

Running three pediatric clinics is one thing. Running them with this kind of intention is something else entirely. Dr. B makes it look easy, but those close to her know—nothing about this is effortless.

Every Tuesday, she gives her people what most leaders never do: time.

And in return, they give her their loyalty.

During today’s meeting, the focus shifts to two overwhelmed employees. Dr. B brings them in via Zoom.

“Y’all look terrified,” she says, laughing. “Don’t be. I just want to know how it’s going.”

At first, the response is cautious. One employee chooses her words carefully, like she’s skating on thin ice.

“You know they already ratted you out,” Dr. B jokes.

With a little push, the employee finally says it: she’s being stretched too thin—“like peanut butter.”

“And there it is,” Dr. B replies, nodding.

She listens carefully and offers immediate short-term solutions. Then she asks, “Are you overwhelmed?”

The answer surprises her—in the best way.

“This is all new. We’re trying to get situated. Of course we’re overwhelmed. It’s normal. But as time goes by, we’re getting the hang of it.”

That’s exactly what Dr. B wanted to hear.

“I love your attitude!” she says, smiling. “You’re doing a great job, and I appreciate you.”

She promises to ease the workload and rebalance responsibilities across the team.

The call ends on solid ground. Not with vague promises or polite nods, but with real solutions, clear responsibilities, and a renewed sense of purpose. No one is confused. No one is unheard. What lingers is clarity—the rare kind of reassurance that only comes when leadership is present.

Dr. B doesn’t float ideas or push things down the line. She listens, assesses, and acts—immediately. And her employees don’t cross their fingers. They trust the process, because they’ve seen it work. In this office, leadership isn’t symbolic. It doesn’t hide behind titles or delegate the hard parts.

Here, leadership takes the meeting, writes the plan, answers the call, solves the problem—and passes the ketchup. Because just like any great combo,

the burger only works if the fries are crisp and properly salted.