The Rock Health desk
Omada was in the first cohort of Rock Health, the San Francisco digital health accelerator. The office sat above Chinatown. The desks were close enough that you could overhear your competitors arguing with their lawyers.
He pocketed a Harvard acceptance, then mailed back a polite goodbye. Fourteen years later he rang the Nasdaq bell with Omada Health.
On the morning of June 5, 2025, the digital-health world watched a fourteen-year-old startup ring the Nasdaq opening bell. The ticker said OMDA. The man holding the gavel was Sean Duffy, who once owned a Harvard Medical School ID badge and gave it back.
Omada Health priced its IPO at $19 a share, square in the middle of its expected range, and stepped onto the public markets with roughly 850 employees behind it. In a category where companies hit the bell young, brassy, and unprofitable, Duffy did the unfashionable thing. He waited. "Today is the right moment for us," he told CNBC the morning after, which is a CEO sentence and also a fourteen-year sentence.
What Omada sells is not exactly software. It is not exactly a clinic. It is a virtual-first care model for people living with chronic conditions, built around the unsexy thesis that healthcare needs to follow patients home. That thesis - and the company - was born in a coworking office above a Chinatown dim sum joint, where Rock Health's first cohort of digital-health hopefuls were squeezed onto folding tables.
Duffy was 26. He had a neuroscience degree from Columbia, a stint at Google, an internship at IDEO, and a half-finished joint MD/MBA from Harvard. The half-finished part is the part he likes to talk about.
While interning at IDEO between his first and second years of medical school, Duffy read about the Diabetes Prevention Program, a 2002 clinical trial that quietly proved something stunning: structured lifestyle change could cut a high-risk patient's chance of developing type 2 diabetes by more than half. The trial was a decade old. Almost no one had figured out how to deliver it at scale. Duffy thought he saw a way. He went back to Boston, finished the year, and then in 2011 wrote the email no parent of a Harvard medical student wants to read.
He co-founded Omada Health that spring with Adrian James, a designer he had met at IDEO, and Andrew DiMichele, an engineer. The three split equity, set up shop in San Francisco, and started building. James and DiMichele have since moved on to other ventures. Duffy stayed.
He has been the only CEO Omada has ever had.
Most people enter Harvard's MD/MBA program already plotting an exit ramp into industry. Duffy's exit ramp arrived in San Francisco, in the form of a design firm summer. IDEO does what IDEO does, which is to put very smart people in rooms with whiteboards and ask them to redesign things that other smart people had already given up on.
The thing Duffy was asked to look at was chronic disease. He came back to medical school with a particular fact rattling around in his head: a trial had shown that for prediabetic patients, lifestyle change beat metformin. Lifestyle change. Group classes, a coach, a scale. Not a molecule. Not a stent. Behavior, delivered on a schedule.
The problem was that the clinical version of the program required a building, a clinician, and patient compliance over 16 weeks of in-person sessions. It worked. It also barely scaled. Duffy wanted to know what it would look like to deliver the same intervention through a phone, a connected scale, and a remote coach. He thought he and a small team could build it. He turned out to be right about that, eventually.
Before Omada there were smaller experiments. He had built an interactive Microsoft Excel training tool called Excel Everest. He had written for Medgadget, a medical-technology blog. The pattern was clear in hindsight: a person who liked teaching, liked products, and was not particularly content to stay in any single lane.
Omada was in the first cohort of Rock Health, the San Francisco digital health accelerator. The office sat above Chinatown. The desks were close enough that you could overhear your competitors arguing with their lawyers.
Duffy has said publicly that he did not think the Series A would come together. A commercial deal fell apart mid-raise. An investor spooked. The round closed anyway. The company kept moving.
Omada secured CDC recognition for its diabetes prevention program, the kind of regulatory cred that converts a clever app into a billable medical service. Insurers started returning calls.
The platform widened over the years into hypertension, weight management, musculoskeletal care, and behavioral health. The model stayed the same: coach + connected device + curriculum + data.
The buyer is rarely the patient. The buyer is an employer, a health plan, or a PBM. Omada built a B2B2C motion that looks more like enterprise SaaS than consumer wellness, complete with quarterly outcome reports.
Omada priced at $19 in the middle of its range. TechCrunch noted the listing avoided the "down-round" trend hammering late-stage health-tech peers. Duffy stayed CEO throughout.
Public filings put annual revenue at roughly $260M leading into the listing. The chart below is a rough visual of category presence over the life of the company - not a precise revenue chart, but an honest sketch of trajectory.
He builds and flies first-person-view drones in his spare time. The man who sells calm, ambient health monitoring spends his Sundays piloting tiny aircraft through trees.
Before Omada, he built Excel Everest, an interactive training tool for Microsoft Excel. The throughline: teach people to do hard things in small repeatable steps.
Omada was in the very first Rock Health cohort. The accelerator office sat above a Chinatown dim sum spot. Multiple founders interviewed have mentioned the smell.
Named to the "100 Most Intriguing Entrepreneurs of 2014." A useful early signal that the financial-services world had clocked him.
"Diabetes All Stars." A nod from the patient-advocacy world that the program was clinically real.
"40 Under 40." Standard local-press anointment for any Bay Area founder who has stopped being a rumor.
Most digital health companies that filed S-1s in the last cycle were three to seven years old. Omada was fourteen. The math is not flattering to anyone in a rush, but it is informative.
Duffy's bet was always that chronic disease is a thirty-year problem and that the company that solves a piece of it has to be built to last thirty years. That requires real clinical evidence, the kind that takes time to accumulate. It requires contracts with employers and payers, which are not impulse purchases. It requires not blowing up.
For most of the last decade, the digital-health press cycle ran ahead of Omada. Telehealth was hotter. AI was hotter. Wearables were hotter. Duffy kept his head down and ran the company. That is the boring story. It is also why the bell rang in 2025.
In the Norwest blog "Built to Bend the Curve," Omada's earliest investor recounts a CEO who, more than anything, refused to confuse a press release with a result. Duffy wanted the studies. Then he wanted the renewals. Then he wanted the contracts. Then he wanted the cohort retention. Then, fourteen years in, he wanted the listing.
He got it.
What comes next is the part founders rarely talk about in advance. A public company has a different metabolism than a private one. Quarterly. Lumpy. Watched. The Sean Duffy who left Harvard to find a way to scale a 2002 trial is now the Sean Duffy who has to explain a 90-day window to a room of analysts. The drones might have to wait.