Dr. Emaya Anbalagan
Quiet Practice, Loud Weekends
By Dr. Edwin Kim
If you find yourself near the Los Altos Garden House on a Sunday afternoon, listen closely. You might catch a sound that seems entirely out of place: the thunderous, earth-shaking boom of Taiko drums. And if you looked closer at the ensemble wielding the Bachi sticks with focused, yet joyful precision, you would find Dr. Emaya Anbalagan in full performance mode.
"It sounded like a fabulous thing to try," Dr. Anbalagan laughs, describing translating an initial interest in the delicate finger-tapping of the Indian tabla to the full-body athleticism of Japanese Taiko. "It's music, it's physical activity, and it's sort of like a mindfulness activity. I really enjoy it."
For Dr. Anbalagan, a leader in the Northern California psychiatric community, this reverberating hobby is more than just exercise; it's ultimately rejuvenating.
"Inevitably, every time your hand comes out... you have blisters in your hands," she admits. "But the process is fantastic."
That willingness to get her hands dirty—literally—traces back to a landscape far removed from the Bay Area. Dr. Anbalagan was raised in the hills of southern India, a childhood framed by high elevation and the rhythms of growing up on a family farm.
"I grew up actually in the hills," she recalls, "with cows and chickens and goats."
That early imprint of nature has turned her into a modern-day explorer of the California coast. She is the guide for her own family, leading expeditions to the East Bay to witness the convergence of hibernating ladybugs or trekking to the windswept dunes of Año Nuevo State Park to observe elephant seals. For Dr. Anbalagan, the Bay Area is not just a tech hub; it is a habitat to be investigated. "I really enjoy finding those little things," she says.
In an ecosystem, stability comes from members filling the necessary niches. Dr. Anbalagan applies this same logic to her community. When she noticed the volunteer reading program at her children’s school was at risk of collapsing due to a lack of leadership, she didn't view it as a scheduling conflict. She viewed it as a gap that needed filling.
"At the beginning of the year... the idea of no one being there to step up to do this was bothering me much more than me spending time doing it," she explains regarding her decision to co-lead the program. "I think it's important for people to step up and contribute when they can."
Whether she is guiding a patient through recovery at the Palo Alto VA, ensuring students have a reading program, or striking a two-foot drum in perfect unison with her peers, the core mechanism is the same: connection. In a valley obsessed with artificial intelligence and digital efficiency, she remains steadfastly analog. She brushes off the idea of algorithms encroaching on her work, a sentiment she sees echoed in the next generation of psychiatrists.
"Most of our interviewees... what they found before they decided to go into psychiatry was that this was a branch where human connection was very valued," she observes. "Wherever we go, I don't think that's going to change."
Dr. Anbalagan is proving that you can hold the quiet space required for healing while still making enough noise to wake up the neighborhood. You just have to know when to listen, and when to pick up the sticks.
