What Patients Told Us: Building Nova Around Real Voices, Not Assumptions

Before Nova Medical Wearables was a product, it was a series of conversations.

Over the past several months, I've talked with people across the country — college students, parents, healthcare workers, people managing chronic illness for a matter of months and people who have carried a medical device for years — about what it actually feels like to get dressed with a PICC line, a port, a feeding tube, or a central line as part of your daily life. Some of these conversations happened over the phone. Some happened standing in a kitchen. 

I didn't go into these conversations with a product already in mind. I went in with questions, and I let the answers shape everything that came after. This post is about what I heard, and why it matters that Nova was built from those voices instead of from assumptions about what "adaptive" or "medical" should look like.

The Quiet Work of Hiding

The theme that came up more than any other wasn't comfort, or cost, or even style. It was concealment.

Person after person described default behaviors of covering up — long sleeves in summer heat, jackets in warm weather, high necklines, avoiding tank tops or dresses — not because a doctor told them to, but because the alternative felt like being on display. One interviewee put it simply: she didn't want her chronic illness to be "the first thing people saw."

Another described a moment that's stayed with me since she shared it: she'd bought herself a birthday dress and had to cut a hole in it for line access. "This sucks," she said, "especially if I want to sell it later." A small, practical sentence that says something much larger about what it means to alter your relationship with your own clothes.

"Function Over Form" Isn't a Complaint — It's a Design Gap

Almost everyone I spoke with, unprompted, arrived at some version of the same conclusion: existing solutions were built for the device, not for the person wearing it. Mesh sleeves that "look ridiculous," clinical netting described as "itchy" and "screaming I'm a patient," compression socks with patterns nobody would actually choose to wear.

One man in his thirties, who has lived with more than a dozen PICC lines and now manages a femoral line, told me the hospital-issued backpack for his infusion pump was the hardest part — not the medical necessity of it, but what it signaled to strangers. He wanted, in his words, to be "person first, patient second." That phrase has become something close to a north star for how I think about Nova's product philosophy.

Resourcefulness as a Coping Mechanism

What struck me most wasn't the absence of solutions — it was how much effort people were already putting into building their own. A grandmother sewing custom J-tube covers. A mother seam-ripping a commercial cover to fit a larger infusion bag, then hand-stitching in extra pockets. Someone cutting up old socks to make an improvised sleeve. Someone else learning to knit specifically so she could make her own PICC covers in colors that matched her wardrobe.

This wasn't a market with no demand. It was a market where the demand had nowhere to go, so people built their own supply — one sock, one sewing project, one workaround at a time.

Weather, Cost, and the Math of Getting Dressed

A few more patterns surfaced consistently:

• Seasonal mismatch. Multiple people described the specific frustration of needing arm access in the dead of winter, or needing to hide a device during a heat wave — situations where "just wear a jacket" or "just wear long sleeves" simply isn't livable advice.
• Cost as a barrier to dignity. Several interviewees flagged that existing premium covers were priced out of reach, particularly for people managing chronic illness on a fixed or limited income. As one 25-year-old told me, needing five pairs of compression socks isn't optional — but neither is being able to afford groceries.
• The desire for a wardrobe, not a workaround. More than one person specifically used the word "wardrobe" — wanting several covers to rotate through, the way anyone rotates through clothes, rather than a single utilitarian item they wash and rewear out of necessity.

What They Actually Asked For

When I asked what an ideal solution would look like, the answers were remarkably consistent — and remarkably reasonable:

• Color and pattern options that could coordinate with an outfit, not just "medical beige"
• Fabric that's soft against skin already irritated by adhesive and tubing
• Thoughtful access points — snaps, zippers, openings placed with intention rather than as an afterthought
• Affordability that reflects the reality that this isn't a luxury purchase, it's a daily one
• The simple, repeated wish to feel like themselves first

Why This Matters for How Nova Builds

None of this is about making chronic illness look aesthetic, and none of it is about pretending a cover changes a diagnosis. It's about something more specific: the difference between clothing that quietly reminds you that you're unwell, and clothing that lets you show up as yourself in a hospital hallway, at a friend's wedding, or on an ordinary Tuesday.

Every product decision Nova makes — fabric choice, color range, price point, access design — is getting stress-tested against real conversations like these ones. Not because it's good marketing to say so, but because it's the only way I know how to build something that actually works for the people who'll wear it.

If you're managing a medical device and have thoughts on what's missing from what's out there, I'd genuinely love to hear from you. This brand is being built in conversation, and that's not changing as it grows. 

Visit our website or email me at nova.yourenotbroken@gmail.com

— Emilie Delaye (Founder) 

Note: All accounts in this post are drawn from Nova's ongoing user research interviews and have been anonymized to protect participant privacy.